Earth's Mightiest
by Thunderstrike78
Summary: After being missing for nearly a decade, Steve Rogers has returned to a changed world. In his absence, the Superhuman Registration Act has become law, superheroes are all but unheard of, and Tony Stark has become president. Now, Rogers must decide what his role will be in this brave, new world. Will he lead a new team of Avengers, or will he become a fugitive from the law?
1. The Choice

TEN YEARS FROM NOW

ANTARCTICA

2:17 PM GMT

The interior of the alien structure was cold. That was to be expected, of course, being in Antarctica, but it was a different kind of cold—not the frigid iciness of the landscape outside, but rather the climate-controlled cold of a sterile facility.

SHIELD agent Grant Ward had shed his heavy parka and several layers of insulation upon entering the newly discovered facility, but he had kept his last sweater to guard against the remaining chill. Now he crept cautiously down corridors that had the feel of antiseptic research space. The markings on the walls were in an alien script that his companions believed to be Kree, but to Ward they just looked like gibberish. He was a field agent, not a science expert.

Behind him, agents Jemma Simmons and Leopold Fitz crept carefully along behind him, each holding electronic scanning devices that resembled common tablet computers, but which Ward knew were much more sophisticated. Fitz was doing his best to interpret the alien markings using SHIELD's linguistic database, but he kept making clucking noises and muttering that he couldn't really be sure about the results. He thought the markings indicated space for biological research, but it was equally possible that they were entering the sewage plant instead.

At the end of the corridor, they came to a door with markings they hadn't seen before. Fitz consulted his tablet.

"Best guess," he said, "is 'restricted access.'"

"Meaning that it probably won't just let us in," offered Ward. "We'll need explosives from the bus."

"I don't think that will be necessary," said Fitz, fishing around in his equipment bag. "We may not know much about the Kree language, but the _Iron Man Files_ have plenty to say about Kree locking mechanisms."

From his pack, Fitz produced a small, metallic disc and magnetically affixed it to the keypad beside the door.

"This should override the lock," he said.

Fitz activated the device, and its face lit up with glowing progress indicators. A moment later, a soft beep announced its success, and the door popped open.

Like something out of _Star Trek_ , the doors were designed to slide into the walls, but they halted just an inch or two apart. Ward muscled them open far enough for the three agents to enter the room beyond.

Inside, a maze of test tubes, blinking readouts, and incomprehensible devices created a mad scientist's playground. Carefully, the three agents split up and crept through the rows and aisles. The equipment would all be carefully examined and catalogued by a pure research team later, but for now their job was to conduct a preliminary survey and determine if anything required immediate attention.

As Ward moved cautiously among the banks of unidentified equipment, he came upon a discovery that brought him up short.

"Hey, guys!" he called to the others across the room. "I think you'd better see this!"

Simmons jogged over to where he was standing in front of a long metal tube, about the width of a man, set into the wall. There was a clear face on it, and beyond the glass (or whatever substance it was made of) lay a large, blonde haired man dressed in the unmistakable costume of the original Captain America.

For a moment, they just stared, unable to believe what they had just found but equally unable to deny the reality of it. A moment later, Fitz joined them. He, too, stared in awe when he saw what had captured their attention.

Simmons was the first to recover.

"I think we'd better call this in," she breathed in her mild British accent. "Top priority."

"I think this is about to get interesting . . ." said Fitz with equal awe.

"We're about to go down in the history books, guys," said Ward.

Earth _'_ s Mightiest

#1

The Choice

" _Beliefs are choices. First you choose your beliefs. Then your beliefs affect your choices."_

 _-Roy T. Bennett_

2 MONTHS LATER

WASHINGTON, D.C.

9:14 AM

The Marine Corps VH-60N transport helicopter was cleared to approach the White House from the north. Unusually, the president was _not_ on board.

Washington, D.C. airspace was tightly restricted. Normally, the only aircraft permitted anywhere in the vicinity of the White House or Capitol Hill were military aircraft carrying the president or vice president. Security considerations were paramount, and aircraft could too easily be turned into flying bombs to permit any exceptions.

Except this one. This flight had been authorized by the President of the United States himself. The U.S. Secret Service had strongly objected, but he hadn't cared. This was a moment in history.

President Anthony Stark stood on the south lawn of the White House, waiting to greet his new guest as the helicopter touched down. This was, itself, highly unusual. The president did not wait to greet other people—other people waited to greet _him_. But again, this was an exception, a moment that had never come before and would never come again.

The helicopter door slid open, and Steve Rogers stepped out into the bright, Washington sunlight. Across the lawn, press pool photographers snapped pictures of the moment and continued to do so as he approached the president and shook hands with his old teammate for the first time in a decade.

"Tony," said Steve. "Good to see you." He glanced around, taking in their surroundings. "You've done pretty well for yourself."

"Steve," said Stark. "You're looking pretty spry for a guy who was born in the nineteen twenties." He turned to the man standing next to him, dressed in a dark suit and bright blue tie, similar to Stark's. "You remember General Ross, the vice president."

"I remember," nodded Steve. "Congratulations on the vice presidency, sir."

Ross scoffed as they shook hands.

"Oh, Tony here deserves all the credit," he said. "I'm just an old warhorse, not a politician. I just go where I'm ordered and do what I'm told."

"I'm sure there's more to it than that, sir," Steve smiled.

Stark turned to Ross.

"Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone, Thaddeus?" he asked.

"Absolutely," agreed Ross. He turned back to Steve and nodded. "A pleasure, Captain." Then he turned and walked toward the portico entrance to the White House.

Stark raised a welcoming arm, directing Steve toward the side door that he knew led directly into the Oval Office. His old friend was wasting no time displaying the trappings of his office.

Reverently, Steve preceded Stark inside. The Oval Office was much as Steve remembered it from previous visits, though he noted with mild dissatisfaction that Stark had altered the color scheme. The rug, sofas, chairs, and drapes were all beige now, giving the room a more drab feeling than he remembered. The two main doors had also been altered at some point. Since its construction, the two doors that led to the outer office and the corridor had been of the same design as the walls, creating an odd blending effect. Now they looked like actual doors, complete with white, molded doorframes.

Stark noticed him studying the doors.

"Yeah, the old ones were too art deco for me," he said, moving to one of the guest chairs arranged in front of the large, wood desk. "Every time they closed the doors, I felt like I was being sealed in. Now I can at least see where the out holes are." He motioned for Steve to sit in the other chair.

"The technicians at the outpost wouldn't tell me much about what happened," Steve said as he sat.

"Yeah, my fault." Stark raised one hand as if to accept blame. "I thought it would be better coming from someone you know. Being a Cap-sicle twice in one lifetime is a lot to take in."

"So what exactly did happen?"

"Well," began Stark, clasping his hands together, "you went missing, to start with. We don't know exactly when because someone took your place. We eventually discovered that a Kree soldier had been surgically altered to look and sound like you, but by then the damage had been done."

"What damage?" Steve asked with alarm.

"Let's just say that having Captain America publicly lead a revolt against public safety didn't help soften government policy toward superhumans."

"What exactly does that mean?"

Stark sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"The halcyon days of superheroes are over," he explained. "There was a disaster in Connecticut. It wasn't the first, and it wasn't the worst, but it captured public attention like nothing else had before. It woke us all up to the fact that superhumans, _all_ superhumans, are dangerous. Whether through deliberate crimes and acts of terrorism or through tragic accidents, they all have the potential for loss of life on a massive scale.

"Laws were passed. SHIELD was brought in to administer and enforce them. Superhumans are tightly regulated now. The days of running off half-cocked are over. No one moves anymore without authorization and proper training."

Steve was beginning to look concerned.

"And the Avengers?" he asked.

Stark looked away, unable to meet Steve's eyes.

"I'm afraid the Avengers disbanded shortly after the new laws went into effect. I wasn't available to run the team in any capacity anymore. Carol tried to take it on, but between Connecticut and the revelation of you as a Kree agent, the public just wasn't having it anymore. No one wanted to cooperate, least of all the government. Entire states and countries started to pass laws prohibiting the activities of unofficial superhumans in any form."

"You let the Avengers disband?" Steve was angry now, as Stark knew he would be. "What do you mean you weren't available?"

Stark raised both hands in an expression of surrender.

"One of the things the president did after the revolt was put down was appoint me director of SHIELD," he said. "There was no way I could split my time between that and being an active-duty Avenger."

"You said 'put down'," growled Steve.

"Poor choice of words." Stark slapped his thighs and stood, sighing as he did so. Slowly, he began to pace around the room.

"Some of our friends had to go to prison after it was all over," he admitted. "That was non-negotiable. You don't get to openly defy a Federal law and resist Federal law enforcement and then just walk away, Steve. You know that. When the police tell you to come out with your hands up, you come out with your hands up. That's how it works.

"Over the years, I've worked to get them all released. It hasn't been easy, but I did it. Everyone is out now, one way or another. Most of our friends chose to quietly retire and have their abilities repressed. In a few cases, like Hercules, exceptions were made and they were allowed to go home on the condition that they never return."

Steve looked like he wanted to say something, but Stark pressed on.

"Every superhuman is required to register with the Federal government and given three options." He held out his hand and counted on his fingers. "First, they can be trained by SHIELD and work in some level of law enforcement; second, they can voluntarily submit to ability suppression therapy to prevent them from injuring anyone through unauthorized use of their powers; or third, if they refuse both of those, they can go to prison. That's the way it works now."

"So _that's_ why the Avengers disbanded," said Steven angrily. "It wasn't about you being 'unavailable'. None of the others wanted to operate the team as an arm of the U.S. government."

Stark shook his head.

"That's only partly true. I _was_ busy running SHIELD. You were gone. Thor disappeared before registration ever became an issue—he reappeared eventually, but he was more concerned with the welfare of Asgard than reforming the Avengers. No one has seen him in years now. Hank and Jan were . . . reluctant to work for the government, so they retired. Carol has always been a good soldier, but the public just wasn't supportive. That wasn't a lie.

"But the good news is that you're back now. With Captain America, the _real_ Captain America, to lead it, I would not be opposed to giving the Avengers another shot."

Steve allowed the remark about the "real Captain America" to pass without comment. He could imagine the explanation. When he had disappeared before, in the waning days of World War II, the U.S. government had attempted to place other men in the role of Captain America several times, but with little success. Most of them had met with ignoble fates of one kind or another, and Steve had no difficulty imagining the same thing had happened after his most recent disappearance.

Instead, he asked a different question.

"What makes you think _I'd_ be willing to operate under government oversight?"

Stark didn't miss a beat.

"This time, leading the Avengers comes with a fringe benefit: you will be the highest government authority over registered superhumans in this country, second only to me. You authorize deployments into the field, and you oversee training programs."

Steve studied him for a long moment.

"You want Captain America to publicly legitimize your policy on superhumans," he said, simply.

Stark's pacing had taken him behind the heavy, oak desk that dominated the room. He turned to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rose garden beyond.

"I'm not going to deny that there are some public relations advantages to having Steve Rogers take a high-level position in my administration," he admitted. "But I can honestly say there's no one I trust more to oversee superhuman policy in this country."

"What about SHIELD?"

"SHIELD will remain the enforcement arm for unregistered superhumans, though the Avengers will have jurisdiction over Omega- and Alpha-level threats." He paused for a moment. "You wouldn't really want responsibility for tracking and arresting superhuman fugitives, would you?"

Steve thought about that. He would have no problem hunting down superhuman criminals, but people who were just trying to help? Heroes who were criminals only because the law said they shouldn't use their powers without official government approval?

Steve shook his head.

"No, I wouldn't," he said, softly.

Several minutes passed in silence, as the two old friends considered the situation.

"I'm still not sure about working for the government again. That doesn't usually work out well for me," said Steve, breaking the silence.

Stark nodded.

"You don't have to decide right now," he said, reassuringly. "Let me show you a few things first, give you something to think about."

The president stepped over to a side door that opened into a short hallway and reached inside for something leaning against the wall.

"For starters," he said, "I think this belongs to you."

Stark turned and Steve saw that he was holding his shield—Captain America's shield. He offered it to Steve, who stood and gratefully accepted it.

Steve took a few test swings with it. The balance was perfect. This _was_ his original shield, forged of a one-of-a-kind mixture of vibranium and adamantium. He would know it anywhere.

"Hello, old friend," he mumbled. Then he looked up at Stark. "Where did you get this? It wasn't in the facility where they found me."

Stark smiled, somewhat grimly.

"When you were replaced, your double took it, probably because there was no way to duplicate it. We took it from him years ago, and we've had it ever since. What we didn't have was _you_."

Steve nodded appreciatively.

"Thank you, Mr. President," he said.

Stark chuckled.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

The phone on the desk chimed, and Stark reached over to activate the intercom. Steve noted that the button he pressed was set off in red, unlike any of the other buttons. He surmised it was for security or military communications, and a moment later he was proven right.

"Yes, what is it?" asked Stark into the intercom.

"This is Security Station One, sir," replied someone on the other end. "I apologize for the interruption, but Icarus just passed by here headed in your direction."

"Understood. Thank you." Stark terminated the intercom.

"Who's Icarus?" asked Steve.

"You're about to find out, Captain Rogers," Stark said, smiling. "Just remember: she's nineteen years old and the U.S. Air Force works for _me_."

Before Steve could ask what he meant by that, the door to the corridor burst open and a thin, young lady with long, brunette hair and stylish glasses exploded into the room. She had vaguely Asian features, but also bore a noticeable resemblance to Stark himself.

"Dad!" she exclaimed. "Is he here? Did you see him? Can I meet—"

She stopped short when she saw Steve standing off to one side, his shield still on his left arm.

"Whoa . . ." she whispered.

Stark stepped forward, an amused twinkle in his eyes.

"Captain Rogers, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Paige."

 _Since when did Tony have a daughter?_ he thought, quickly doing the math. _How did I not know about that?_

Momentarily taken aback, Steve recovered quickly. He put his hand out in greeting, and she quickly shook it.

"A pleasure to meet you," he said, politely.

For a moment, she was silent, as if in awe. Then the floodgates opened.

"I have so many questions!" she practically squealed. "How long were you gone? Do you remember what happened? Is it weird to be back? Is this what it was like the first time they found you? Are you going to be a superhero again? What's your favorite candy? Can I get—"

The president, gently but firmly, placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

"Why don't we let the captain get settled in a bit before we ask him too many questions," he said. "I already asked him a big one, and he has a lot to think about right now."

"Did you offer him the Avengers back?" she asked without missing a beat. "Is that what he has to think about?"

Stark's face darkened, slightly.

"Young lady, have you been reading my confidential briefings again?" he asked, sternly. "That's technically a Federal crime, you know."

Paige smiled, sweetly, and leaned in to kiss her father on the cheek.

"I'm sure you'll pardon me," she said. Then she turned and rushed to the portico door. "I'll meet you on the helicopter!" she said over her shoulder.

Steve looked quizzically at Stark.

"The helicopter?"

"She read the briefing," he explained. "I thought I'd show you the new Avengers facilities before you make up your mind."

"What facilities?"

Stark smiled again. To Steve, he was looking more and more like the proverbial cat that ate the equally proverbial canary.

"You'll see," said Stark.

* * *

The flight from Washington, D.C. to New York City was relatively short, especially when helped along by presidential priority and Stark-designed improvements to the aircraft. Once in the city, they flew among the tallest of the buildings, weaving back and forth. Paige seemed to enjoy the ride, peering eagerly out the window, though Steve was sure she had made the flight numerous times before. Stark himself chatted happily about minor news events, sports, and other inconsequential matters. For his part, Steve sat quietly, waiting for Stark to make his pitch. He wasn't disappointed.

At length, Stark pointed out a tall building that was coming into sight. Steve noted with some satisfaction that the stylized Avengers _A_ adorned the top floor, marking it as their destination.

"Stark Tower," said Stark, proudly. "Ninety-three stories of office space and residential apartments, topped off by three levels of state-of-the-art headquarters facilities for the modern super-team. It was originally intended as prime office and residential space in midtown, but no one wanted to move in because they were afraid it might be attacked by aliens. So I figured, why not fill it with people who might be attacked by aliens?"

Stark chuckled. He loved telling that joke. He had been telling it for years, in fact.

"Paige actually lives here during the summer, when she isn't at MIT," he continued.

"She doesn't live at the White House?" asked Steve, surprised.

"It feels too much like a museum," said Paige from her seat near the window. "And all of my equipment is here. This is home."

"Equipment?" Steve asked.

Stark beamed, proudly.

"Paige has always had a talent for computer programming and robotics," he said. "I taught her everything I know. She's getting her Ph.D. right now."

"It's really just a formality," said Paige, happily. "I already know all the material. I just need my official credentials."

"What are you planning on doing after you graduate?" asked Steve.

She looked proudly at her father.

"I want to work for my dad. I want to be part of what he's doing to protect people."

The helicopter set down on the rooftop helipad without incident, and the three passengers exited the craft. Steve noted that neither the Secret Service agents who had accompanied them nor the Marine Corps honor guard that was part of the helicopter's crew went into the building with them.

"Stark Tower is easily the most secure building on the planet," Stark explained, "surpassing even the White House and the Pentagon. There's no need for bodyguards here."

"How is that possible?" asked Steve, incredulously.

"I'll show you. But first, I'd like you to meet the team," said Stark.

"You already have one picked out?"

"Think of them as your first recruits. I didn't want you to start off empty-handed."

They walked in through a pair of sliding glass doors, and Steve found himself in a fully equipped rooftop gymnasium. Along one wall, another set of doors, these made of solid metal, were labeled "combat training", while another led to a locker room and shower facilities. At the rear of the room, opposite the doors to the helipad, was a set of doors that looked like they led to an elevator or lift.

Stark spread his arms, taking in the entire facility.

"This is the training area," he declared. "Fully equipped and state-of-the-art. I know how important training is to you, so I spared no expense. Everything is rated for use by even someone as powerful as Thor."

Standing in the middle of the room were three individuals, all dressed in variations of standard SHIELD combat uniforms. They watched patiently, waiting to be acknowledged.

The first was an athletic-looking man dressed in purple-and-black. He wore purple sunglasses and sported a spiked hairstyle. The bow and quiver full of arrows he carried marked him as an archer, and he reminded Steve of his old teammate, Hawkeye, though this man struck him as more intense and militaristic. Stark introduced him as Trick Shot, though he assured Steve there was no relation to the original villain.

Standing next to Trick Shot was a young, black woman wearing a curious-looking collar around her neck that must have been some kind of tech. Stark introduced her as Syren, explaining that she was an accomplished combat expert and a highly-regarded field operative for SHIELD. She had been outfitted with a sonic projection collar that gave her a powerful sonic scream, affording her an additional advantage in combat.

Finally, the last team member was a giant of a man in terms of both height and muscular bulk. He, too, wore what resembled a large SHIELD combat uniform, this one in black and bronze to match his skin tone. His face resembled that of a bull, complete with horns protruding from the sides of his head, a result of the same genetic mutation that gave him the power and ferocity of a raging bull, according to Stark. He was introduced as Rampage.

All three greeted Steve respectfully, if a bit warily. He could see them sizing him up, trying to decide if the renowned Captain America lived up to his reputation.

"And now for a little demonstration," said Stark. "Trick Shot, shoot me."

Trick Shot didn't hesitate. He immediately drew and notched an arrow, aiming it at the president. Stark saw Steve tense up and prepare to intervene, but he held up a hand to indicate that Steve should do nothing.

Trick Shot let the arrow fly, but just before it struck Stark it was halted in mid air. A familiar green and yellow figure materialized out of nowhere, holding the arrow fast where it had stopped.

"Vision!" exclaimed Steve, suddenly delighted to see a familiar face. Stark and Paige smiled.

"Good morning, Captain," said Vision, lowering the arrow and returning it to Trick Shot. "I am pleased that you have agreed to join us here today. President Stark has informed me that you are considering the position he has offered you. Please allow me to say that you would be a welcome addition."

"Vision is in control of the mainframe here," Stark explained. "This isn't really his body. It's a solid holographic projection he can use to appear anywhere in the building. It's basically the same setup he had after Morgan le Fey destroyed his body, except now he can actually interact with the world in his holographic form."

"It would be more accurate," said Vision, "to say that I _am_ the mainframe. I am regrettably restricted to the inside of this building, where the holoprojectors are, but I am fully at your disposal."

"It's good to see you in any form, Vision," said Steve, smiling. For the first time, he was beginning to feel a bit more optimistic about the situation.

Stark held out his hand to shake Steve's.

"I'm going to leave you in Vision's hands now. I'm afraid I have to get back to Washington," he said. "Command and Control is one floor down, along with some office and work space. The Quinjet hanger is another floor down, along with a variety of scientific equipment and lab space, and the team's living quarters are on the next floor down.

"Take your time, look around, and when you're ready, let me know what you decide."

Steve felt a little overwhelmed as they shook hands. Then Stark kissed his daughter goodbye and went back outside to the helicopter. In moments, it was airborne.

* * *

Several hours later, Steve sat alone in Command and Control, a large room filled with complex computers and communications systems, all far more advanced and user-friendly than anything the team had at its disposal before his disappearance.

After Stark had left, he had spent some time interviewing the three recruits Stark had left him. They all seemed to be acceptable candidates, but he was a bit concerned that they all had extensive SHIELD backgrounds and had served in SHIELD's Operations Division. The uniformity of mind and experience was troubling. In his experience, the best teams were always made up of a variety of viewpoints and life experiences. Still, given the new requirement for proper training and government accountability, that was probably to be expected.

With that done, Steve had tried to access information on his old friends, teammates, and allies. There was frustratingly little to find. The files were all there, to be sure, but the vast majority ended with their arrest and incarceration in a facility designated only as "42". In nearly every file he looked up, there was an additional notation of the date they elected to undergo superhuman ability suppression therapy and retire to civilian life. After that, the file offered no additional information, and when he tried to access information on Facility 42 he found that it was classified above even his new security authorization. A few of his old friends and acquaintances were still listed as "at large", which predictably provided little information for Steve to use in tracking them down, and a few files were almost completely redacted.

"Vision," he said aloud to the empty room.

Obediently, the Vision's holographic projection appeared nearby.

"Yes, Captain?" he said.

"These files I'm looking at—what security level are these individuals' current contact information classified at?"

"That information is classified 'eyes only' for the director of SHIELD," replied Vision.

Steve gritted his teeth in frustration. What he wanted was to talk to someone about his options, someone who had lived through the last ten years and seen what had gone on, someone he trusted to not have an ulterior motive. Unfortunately, all of his old friends and comrades were unreachable and untraceable, at least not without extensive legwork and investigation. They certainly weren't available to just sit down and have a cup of coffee with.

He could feel the hand of Tony Stark leading him to only one, unavoidable option: take the job or else be completely alone in the world.

Behind him, Steve heard the automatic doors slide open. A pair of light footsteps approached.

"Any luck?" asked Paige, peering over his shoulder at the large computer display.

Steve half-turned in his chair.

"Any luck with what?" he asked, reflexively.

"I figured the first thing you'd do is try to look up some old friends," she said. "It's what I would do if I woke up in the future."

Steve grunted.

"Unfortunately," he told her, "all of my friends' current contact information is classified."

Paige scanned the list of files he had pulled up.

"Wow," she said. "Didn't you have any friends who weren't Avengers or superheroes or something?"

Steve shook his head.

"After I was pulled from the ice, my life basically revolved around the Avengers," he admitted. "I tried to have a relatively normal side to my life a few times, but it never really worked out. I don't think I ever put down any real, personal roots anywhere after the war."

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and he sat straight up in his chair.

"Wait," he said, quickly keying in search parameters. "There might be one person . . ."

Sure enough, when he pulled up her file, it included current contact information. He was relieved to see she was still alive, and still living in New York. SHIELD still kept tabs on her as former Avengers support staff, but they considered her low priority.

Without another word, Steve rushed out of the room.

* * *

Behind him, Paige cursed, silently. Her father had apparently not known about this person, and it was too late to security lock her personal information now. She stepped up to the computer monitor and entered her own login. Bringing up another screen, she double-checked the security lockouts on all of Steve Rogers' significant past associates and verified they were all still intact. She briefly considered adding security lockouts to every known past associate, significant or otherwise, but she decided that such thorough measures would look suspicious. What would he think if he found he was locked out of contact information for everyone he had ever met?

The Vision's holoprojection stood nearby, silently watching.

"Vision," she told it, "let me know when Captain Rogers returns to the building."

"Acknowledged," it nodded before promptly vanishing.

Then she keyed a priority command into the room's workstation before hurrying from the room.

* * *

Sometime later, Steve found himself sitting on a sofa in an old, Victorian townhouse in Greenwich Village. It reminded him a bit of Doctor Strange's home, which he knew was somewhere nearby, though he couldn't quite remember where, for some reason.

As he sat, enjoying his surroundings for perhaps the first time since he'd been awakened in Antarctica, Peggy Carter bustled in from the kitchen carrying a tray, upon which sat a sea kettle, two cups and saucers, and a plateful of scones.

"So, let me get this straight," she said as she laid out the tea and scones. "Tony Stark himself has offered you a job in his cabinet, a job with vast influence over superhuman policy _and_ will allow you to keep being Captain America, and you come to a long-retired switchboard operator for advice on whether you should take it."

With a contented sigh and an amused grin, she sat down on the sofa opposite him.

"Only Steve Rogers," she said.

"You know you were always more than a switchboard operator to me," he told her, sipping his tea.

Steve had known Peggy Carter since World War II, where they had served together in Paris. Even after he had been pulled from the ice in New York Harbor years before, they had remained close despite the now-apparent age difference—had had skipped several decades of history, but she had come the long way around. Still, he considered her one of his closest friends, and there was no one whose advice he trusted more.

She smiled, thinly.

"What did you really come here to ask, Steve?"

Steve looked away, as if staring at something only he could see.

"What's it been like?" he asked, at length. "These last ten years or so? What was it like to live through it?"

"I won't lie to you," she said, sadly. "It's been frightening. First Stamford, then the fighting over the Registration Act, and then to find out that the whole time you hadn't been . . . you. It was enough to shake anyone's faith."

Steve's mood darkened considerably.

"That may not have been me fighting the Registration Act, but I'm not sure it wouldn't have been if I'd been . . . me, if that makes any sense."

"I know," she said with that sad smile again. "And that was the hardest thing to try to explain to people. To them, genetics and species were all that mattered; they didn't care that he was doing exactly what you would have done in his place."

"And since then?"

She sighed.

"Public trust in independent superheroes has steadily eroded over the years," she told him. "People don't even call them superheroes anymore. Mostly, they're called unlicensed superhumans or vigilantes. The public _wants_ superheroes to be answerable to a higher authority so that when something goes wrong or mistakes are made, someone can be held responsible."

Steve shook his head in bewilderment.

"Anyone who's been involved in field operations of any kind," he said, "knows mistakes are inevitable. Decisions have to be made in fractions of a second, and no operation goes off without any kind of error."

"But you have to remember," she said, gently, "most people today have never been involved in field operations. The war is over, and the draft is long dead. The majority of people don't choose to serve their country or anything greater than themselves now. They don't have that firsthand experience, and they're pretty unforgiving of failure."

Steve got up from the sofa and began pacing the room.

"So everyone works for the government now?" he asked her, sounding more bitter than he intended. "For Tony Stark?"

"I know how much you value your independence, Steve," she tried to soothe him. "But it's the only way you'll be allowed to operate now. If you don't work for the government, you'll have to either retire and work a normal job or be a vigilante fighting SHIELD at the same time you're fighting criminals."

She fixed him with a penetrating state, made no less powerful for all the time that had passed since they'd last seen each other.

"So let me ask you," she said, finally. "Who do you want to spend your time fighting?"

* * *

Agent Ward found himself in a large, mostly empty parking garage about ten blocks from Stark Tower. The contact hadn't arrived yet, but that was okay with him. He preferred to arrive early so he could familiarize himself with his surroundings anyway.

After the mission to Antarctica, Ward had requested a temporary assignment to stay close to Rogers when he reentered society. It was a delicate situation that SHIELD Command was watching closely, and Ward himself was one of the agency's most skilled and trusted operatives, so it was easily granted. Ward had to admit, however, that his interest was not purely professional. However good that might have sounded to Agent Coulson, it wasn't the real reason. Deep down, Ward hoped he might get a chance to test himself against Captain America, to really see just how extensive SHIELD's training and conditioning was against the Living Legend of World War II. That might be pride talking, but Ward regarded it as healthy pride.

One by one, four other agents entered the parking garage and took up position in different parts of the vast cavern. Ward nodded at each one as they entered, recognizing them from his mission briefing (which had, itself, consisted only of the identities of the other agents assigned to his team and instructions to report to this location as quickly as possible for a full briefing from a high-ranking SHIELD asset). None of them said anything aloud to each other, merely keeping each other within a clear line of sight.

At length, their contact appeared, flashing the appropriate code on her small flashlight. At her signal the agents converged on her, and as he drew near, Ward was surprised to recognize her as the president's daughter. He knew her from news footage, but he had never realized she was a SHIELD asset.

Quietly, he listened to her explain their mission.

* * *

There had been no time for detailed planning.

Paige had made an immediate request to SHIELD for undercover field agents. Although not officially a government agent, her security clearance was high enough to get her a team of five agents before thirty minutes had passed. Not wanting them to be seen at Stark Tower, she used one of her father's private exits to bypass the security detail that was assigned to escort her whenever she left the building.

At the appointed time, she met the agents in a quiet parking garage several blocks away. They were all appropriately nondescript, each dressed in unremarkable street clothes and wearing stylish sunglasses to hide their features.

"Make it look random," she told them after she had explained what she needed. "And remember—this is Captain America we're talking about, the _real_ Captain America. So it won't be easy, and he isn't likely to be gentle."

The agents nodded, saying nothing as their training dictated.

Paige brought out a thin tablet computer displaying a map of the city. Two markers indicated specific locations within the city. A bright, blue line traced a route along the city streets that joined the two locations.

"This is where he is now," she said, pointing to one marker, "and this is Stark Tower, where he'll probably go back to. When he starts moving again, this will give you his real time location as he goes. You'll have to pick an appropriate location based on which way he goes, someplace he's likely to pass by."

She tapped the screen, lightly, and several more markers appeared around the map. The first markers had been red, but the new ones were all green.

"I've taken the liberty of identifying a few likely locations," she explained, "but you'll have to make a big enough scene to attract his attention. No other SHIELD-authorized operatives are anywhere nearby, so you shouldn't have any surprises."

The lead agent nodded and took the proffered tablet.

"We understand, ma'am," he said, and she marveled at how unremarkable even his voice was. "We'll take care of it."

Without another word, the agents turned and left through a nearby stairwell, leaving Paige alone.

Pushing away her uneasiness, she turned and headed back to Stark Tower.

* * *

Inside, Ward was elated.

Once clear of the parking garage and their contact, Ward led the small group into a side alley where they could confer privately. Better to plan the specifics of their operation away from the contact, giving her as much plausible deniability as possible as well as minimizing the risk of her revealing operational details to anyone else.

Ward wasn't sure why SHIELD would initiate such an operation with the express intention of attracting the attention of someone as high-profile as Captain America, but long experience had taught him that it was not always his place to understand. He was a soldier, and his duty required him to follow orders.

Still, it appeared he would get his chance to face Captain America in combat. If only for that reason, he was content not to ask too many questions.

* * *

An hour later, Steve hugged Peggy goodbye and stepped out onto the street. It had been good to see his old friend, and he'd been happy to see that she was doing so well, but he was no less conflicted about his choices than he had been before. It still seemed to him that there was no good choice: he could sign on with Stark and become an official government agent, go on the run and operate as a criminal vigilante, or quietly retire. Leaving the United States wasn't even an option for him: "Captain France" just didn't have the same ring to it.

He chose a different route back to Stark Tower than the one he had taken earlier in the day. Although he hadn't been a SHIELD agent in many years, the training and field experience in counter-espionage stayed with him. He avoided predictable routes whenever possible, sometimes without even thinking about it.

Steve had been walking, lost in thought, for about twenty minutes when a flurry of activity caught his attention.

Down one street, as he passed, a noticeable crowd had gathered in front of a building about two blocks away. Steve stopped to look and saw two NYPD patrol vehicles parked just off the sidewalk, lights flashing. Several officers appeared to be directing the crowd back, away from the building.

Realizing something was wrong, Steve changed course to investigate. He was wearing civilian clothes so as not to draw attention: a t-shirt, jeans, comfortable shoes, and an old Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. Although he had left his Captain America costume behind (he hadn't even worn it to the White House earlier in the day), he had learned long ago to never go anywhere without his shield. He had managed to locate a canvas bag large enough to hold it before he left Stark Tower, and he carried it even now.

As he approached, Steve could see the building was a bank. It didn't take much to imagine what must be happening inside, but he pushed through the crowd to the nearest police officer anyway, just to be sure.

"What's happening, officer?" he asked, fighting the urge to request an official status report.

The officer looked askance at him, but something in Steve's demeanor must have convinced him to answer anyway.

"Looks like a robbery gone bad," he said, hastily. "Just stay back on the street and let us handle this."

Concluding that was all the information he was going to get without identifying himself, Steve pulled back and slipped out of the crowd. Looking around, he picked another building a few doors down and approached it. In the alley on the south side, he found a fire escape that would afford him access to the roof. His enhanced leg muscles allowed him to reach the bottom of it on the first jump.

Once on the roof, he removed his shield from the canvas bag and strapped it over his shoulders like a backpack. Then he looked around.

Steve was on a roof four buildings away from the bank the police had blocked off. Along the way, he saw, the buildings varied in height, though not so much that he didn't think himself capable of vaulting across the differences.

With a trained eye, he gauged the drop to the next rooftop. He felt confident that he could make it and roll to absorb the impact across his entire body and knew that, in fact, he had made similar leaps repeatedly in the past without a second thought, but he also knew that he had been in cryogenic suspension for the past ten years. Dr. Simmons had put him through several rounds of tests at the facility in Antarctica to make sure his physical abilities were still at the same level they had been before, but this would be the first time he had used them in the field.

Steve swallowed back a mild sense of apprehension, backed up several steps to get a good running start, and ran toward the edge of the roof.

He made the drop easily, tucking and rolling as he landed before coming back up to his feet. Everything seemed to be as he remembered it. With growing confidence, he ran toward the next building and leaped up to it, easily clearing the edge. He crossed two more buildings in a similar manner before he reached his destination. Once atop the building that housed the bank, Steve was careful to stay back far enough to not be visible from the street.

Like most buildings in New York, there was a roof-access doorway that would allow him to enter from above. He was gambling that the bank robbers, whoever and however many of them there were, wouldn't be expecting anyone to enter from the roof, but it wasn't a bad gamble. If Stark was to be believed, vigilantes who travelled by rooftop were virtually unheard of now, and the police hadn't yet had time to arrive in large enough numbers to mount an assault on the building.

Steve approached the door and, kneeling beside it, listened intently. Over the years, he had noticed that the super soldier serum that was the source of his physical abilities hadn't just enhanced his speed, strength, and reflexes—it had enhanced _everything_ , including his senses. While not enhanced to the level of, say, Matt Murdock, they were still significantly more sensitive than the average person's. That fact often gave him a major advantage that his foes knew nothing about.

After satisfying himself that no one lurked on the other side of the door, he stood to one side and used his shield to bash the knob off the door. When there was no reaction, he gripped the door by the now-empty hole and wrenched it open, splintering part of it, and proceeded cautiously through it and down the stairs, his shield held protectively before him.

Still nothing. Was it possible that the robbers hadn't posted a sentry at the bottom of the stairwell? That seemed too good to be true, but Steve had no idea how sophisticated these robbers might be. It was possible that they were professionals with a good approach to security and a solid escape plan, but it was equally possible that they were nothing more than amateurs having a good day.

Like most buildings in this part of the city, the upper floors were devoted to residential apartments, so Steve was grateful to find no one else in the stairwell that ran from the roof to the ground floor. The last thing he wanted was for any civilian residents, unaware than an armed robbery was taking place downstairs, to be caught in the crossfire as he approached.

Carefully, he descended the five floors to the ground and approached the door that he knew led to the floor that housed the bank. Using his enhanced senses again, he listened and detected some light shuffling on the other side. While there was no sentry stationed inside the stairwell, as Steve would have done, the robbers had apparently put someone in the hall that led to the stairwell. Steve knew there was no way he could slip through the closed door without alerting the man on the other side, so the only option was to lure the man inside the stairwell and hope that he could take him out before he could alert the others.

Intentionally making noise to alert the sentry now, Steve climbed the stairs at a run and took up position on the second landing, directly above the door to the ground floor, and smoothly removed his shield, holding it in one hand. Then he threw it at one wall, angling it carefully to ricochet off the other two and return to him. In the process, it made several loud clanging noises that echoed off the walls of the stairwell. Then he put his back to the wall behind him and waited.

It paid off.

After a moment, the door on the ground floor eased open, and the sentry stationed in the hall outside crept in, his sidearm carefully preceding him. As soon as he cleared the landing above, Steve charged the railing, stepped up to the top rail, and leaped over it. In mid-air, he brought his shield to bear in front of him and cannonballed into the man below. He went down before he ever knew what hit him.

As he stood over him, Steve noted that the man had never fired a shot. For that to be possible, his finger would have had to be off the trigger and outside the trigger guard. In his experience, it was unusual for amateurs to observe that kind of gun safety, which meant that these robbers were likely professionals. He would have to be cautious. Nothing in the way he was dressed hinted at anything other than a common resident of the city, and a quick search of the man's pockets turned up nothing useful—no wallet, no keys, and nothing that might reveal his identity. To Steve's trained eye, the man seemed too clean. Again, the careful exclusion of anything that might identify the man was the sign of a professional.

Based on where the stairwell was and how the rest of the building had been designed, he was reasonably certain that the stairwell door would not open directly into the bank lobby. It was more likely to open into a hallway, but he still took a moment to listen again at the door for any telltale signs of people on the other side.

When he was satisfied there were none, he eased the door open and stepped through.

Steve found himself in a short hallway that turned a corner at the far end. A few feet away, two doors led to a pair of restrooms with a drinking fountain in between. On the other side of the hall were three more unlabeled doors, presumably leading to storage closets or utility rooms.

His first order of business, he knew, was to cut the electricity. It wouldn't produce pitch darkness in the middle of the day, because banks had expansive windows that made it easy to see in from the outside, but every advantage was helpful.

On a hunch, he tried the closest unlabeled door. Locked. Not wanting to risk the sound of his shield impacting the doorknob, Steve grasped the knob in his hand and, using his enhanced strength, twisted it hard. The knob snapped, and Steve prayed it was not so loud as to alert anyone. He pulled the knob off the door and unlatched the door as quietly as he could. Then he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

As luck would have it, Steve had guessed correctly on the first try. The fuse box was mounted on one wall. He opened it and made a quick decision. He needed to disable the power in a way that would not be easy for the robbers to fix, so he drew back his shield and smashed it into the box. It exploded in a shower of sparks, and the lights instantly went out.

Without wasting an instant, he wrenched the shield out of the fuse box and stepped back into the hallway. Spying the restroom doors as his only option for concealment, he quickly stepped into the women's room, gambling that if the robbers had the presence of mind to position someone at the stairwell door, they would also have already checked the restrooms.

Sure enough, when he heard footsteps pass the restroom door moments later, they went right past and directly to the utility room door. Knowing it would take a moment for whoever had passed him to check inside the utility room before he suspected anyone might be in the hallway, Steve stepped out of the women's room and approached the utility room.

This man was dressed just as unremarkably as the first and carried a sidearm as well. Steve approached him from behind, stepped as silently as his training had taught him. When the man finally turned away from the fuse box to look out into the hallway, Steve struck him squarely in the face before he could react. The man slumped to the floor, unconscious. A quick search of his pockets revealed nothing.

Steve's suspicions were mounting, but he pushed them aside for the moment and stepped back into the hallway. He glanced up and briefly considered using the drop ceiling as a crawlspace to sneak farther into the building, but quickly rejected it. There was no way that framework would hold his 220 pounds, and the most likely result would be a massive crash as the ceiling gave way beneath him. Steve wasn't afraid to die for a just cause, but he had little interest in committing suicide by stupidity.

There had to be another option.

* * *

Ward knew that two of his men had been taken out already. He expected no less from Captain America. In fact, he would have been severely disappointed if either his man at the stairwell or the man he'd sent to investigate the power outage had apprehended him. He was still hoping to get a shot at him, personally.

Ward had rounded up all of the bank workers and customers in the main room and made them sit with their backs against the teller counter. He had deliberately allowed the workers to trigger the silent alarm. The whole point of the robbery was to draw attention, after all, and he wasn't going to accomplish his mission by keeping the whole thing a secret. As a SHIELD agent, he had no intention of hurting any of the civilians or detaining them any longer than necessary, but he also knew that the appearance of hostages would give him an advantage. He just hoped no one would call his bluff.

With two of his men out of action, Ward kept the remaining two in the main room with him, ostensibly to keep an eye on the hostages. There were about a dozen of them, all told, and they seemed appropriately subdued by their situation. No unexpected heroes there.

Ward looked out toward the lobby and the hallway he had sent his man down several minutes before. He couldn't actually see down the hall because it turned a corner and ran down the length of the building to his right, behind the reinforced work area for the tellers. Still, he knew Rogers was down there, somewhere, and must have come down the stairwell from the roof. Costumed types loved coming in from the roof, he knew. They thought it was unexpected and clever, but they all used it so often that it was actually quite predictable.

Would he come barreling down the hall, shield forward, in a full frontal assault? Would he simply step out and offer himself as a more valuable hostage to save the civilians? Would he try to signal the police somehow? Would he try to distract them? Ward didn't know, and the anticipation was exhilarating. This was what he loved: the anticipation of the coming fight.

Far to his right, at the rear of the building and far from the lobby and hallway he was carefully watching, Ward heard a muffled shout, as if from outside. Curiously, he glanced in that direction, keeping his weapon trained carefully on the hallway. There was a window there, at the far end of the room, that looked out on the alley behind the building.

In an instant, he realized his mistake, as the shield of Captain America suddenly filled the window and impacted against the glass, sending an explosion of shards into the room.

 _Oh, shit . . ._

* * *

Realizing that it would be almost suicidal for him to walk openly into the bank proper, Steve had elected to do the most unpredictable thing he could think of: retreat.

If his opponents were as professional as he suspected, he knew they would be aware of his presence in the hall and expect him to approach from there. He also knew that a bank like this one would likely have as many windows as possible for maximum visibility in case of a robbery, which would hopefully include one in the back wall that might offer him an unexpected means of entry.

Like most buildings in New York, the bottom floor was given over to a business while the upper floors were probably residential apartments. In this case, Steve remembered seeing a sign for a health and fitness center on the second floor. He had rushed back up to the second floor and sprinted into the workout area, vaulting the customer service desk in front in one, smooth leap. The club's employees looked alternately alarmed and awed, but no one attempted to stop him. He saw a few of them glance, wide eyed, at the shield on his arm and guessed that, even after his long absence, they knew what it was and who he must be.

Racing to the rear of the building, Steve had crashed through the window that he knew must lead to the fire escape landing. He had vaulted the top rail and caught himself with his free hand, halting his forward momentum and sliding down the vertical railing before catching himself again on the bottom landing. The full force of his momentum swung him down under the landing and through the window directly below the one he had just come through. With the speed and force of an Olympic sprinter, he hurled into the bank with his shield held protectively before him, sending a shower of shattered glass into the room.

He had no more than a split second to take stock of the room he was crashing into, but years of training and experience meant that it was enough.

As he landed, he rolled to absorb the shock and also to keep moving and maintain the element of surprise. There were three men standing around the room, all armed and dressed similarly to the first two. As he came out of his roll, Steve threw his shield at the man farthest to his right, scoring a direct hit and knocking him instantly unconscious. The shield bounced off the man's head, bounced again off a nearby wall, and ricocheted back toward Steve as he continued his advance into the room.

The startled robber to Steve's left was trying to bring his weapon to bear when Steve barreled into him. He thrust his left forearm under the man's chin, impacting hard and knocking him backward, while he caught the returning shield with his right hand. The man sprawled backward, instantly unconscious, and Steve quickly rolled to his feet to face the final armed man.

To his dismay, he found that the final man had had the presence of mind to grab one of the hostages and was even now pressing his weapon against her temple. The terrified woman clawed desperately at the man's forearm, which was wrapped around her throat, but to no avail.

The two men stared intently at each other, measuring the other's resolve.

"Let her go," said Steve, knowing it was a non-starter even as he said it.

"Drop the shield," the man countered, unwaveringly.

Steve clenched his jaw in frustration. After everything he had done so far, he had no real choice.

* * *

Ward could feel the woman's panic as he held her tightly against him, and pushed back against a wave of guilt. He had no intention of following through on his implied threat, but for the sake of the mission, he couldn't appear to go down easily.

After a moment, Rogers dropped his shield, face down, in front of him. Ward let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Kick it away," he instructed.

Reluctantly, Rogers obeyed, kicking it off to his right. Ward noted that he was careful not to hit any of the hostages with it in the process.

"It's down to just you and me, Rogers," he said, releasing the woman to rejoin the others. Slowly, deliberately, he released the magazine from his weapon, allowing it to drop to the floor, and emptied the chamber. Then he tossed the weapon aside.

"Let's see how good you really are," he said, and dropped into a fighting stance.

* * *

Steve was confused. What was the other man playing at? He had just given up a clear advantage, but for what? A one-on-one fight? Why?

Regardless, Steve was only too happy to oblige.

The man came at him first with a basic right hand lead, which Steve blocked easily. That was followed by a left hand strike, also blocked, and a sweep with the right leg, which Steve smoothly dodged.

There was almost no force behind those blows, Steve noted. Either his opponent wasn't taking the fight seriously, which he doubted, or he was probing him, testing him.

With hostages in the room, Steve wasn't willing to play games.

He responded with a left hand strike of his own, which was blocked, and then immediately spun around into a roundhouse kick that he planted firmly on his opponent's chest. The man stumbled backward a step, but didn't go down. Instead, he was ready for Steve's follow up.

As Steve threw a powerful right hand strike, his opponent ducked beneath it and then came up to tuck his shoulder under Steve's armpit. He used the resulting leverage to lift Steve off his feet and flip him over backward, but Steve reached back and grabbed him by the belt of his pants, pulling him along as he went. The result was that when Steve landed on his back on the carpet, his opponent landed on top of him, facing the ceiling.

From the bottom, Steve reached forward with his right arm and wrapped it around his opponent's throat, locking him into a headlock. At the same time, he wrapped both lets around his adversary's waist, securing himself tightly to his opponent's back and giving him nowhere to go. Once locked in, he tightened his grip around the man's throat, denying him oxygen. He knew it would only be a matter of time until he lost consciousness.

* * *

Ward cursed himself for a fool. Not only had he allowed Rogers to misdirect his attention and surprise him from behind, but he had also allowed him to dictate the terms of their engagement by turning it into a grappling match. He couldn't hope to match the super soldier's sheer physical strength—no unenhanced human could—and that left him with few options at this point.

Few, but not none.

Rogers' hold had left both of Ward's arms free. He probably didn't think it was an issue against someone with considerably less physical strength, but Ward had no intention of wearing himself out by straining against muscles that could throw a motorcycle overhead. Instead, he reached down to the pouch at his waist and fished out the compact can of mace he carried for emergencies.

Reversing his grip on it, he reached back and sprayed it directly in the super soldier's eyes. He was under no illusion that something so simple would do more than startle someone like Rogers, but he hoped it would at least loosen his grip long enough for him to wriggle free.

It worked.

For just a split second, Rogers' iron grip slackened, and Ward wrenched himself loose, rolling nimbly to his feet and spinning to find that Rogers had done the same.

They were back to square one.

* * *

Steve wasn't surprised that the man had resorted to cheating at the brink of defeat. His exact method of cheating had been a bit of a surprise, but he had expected some sort of last-second gambit.

As the two faced off against each other again, Steve heard a click followed by a louder double-click from behind his opponent. Glancing in that direction, he saw that one of the hostages, a thin man with slicked back grey hair and a salt-and-pepper moustache, wearing an expensive suit, had retrieved his adversary's discarded weapon and clip. As Steve watched, he turned to bring the now-loaded weapon to bear.

His opponent had heard it, too. Instantly, he spun toward the former hostage. There was no doubt he possessed the speed to cross the short distance and disarm the man before he could fire, but Steve's own speed, was superior.

Before the man could take a step, Steve lunged forward and grabbed him by the arm as he turned, restraining him. The man tried to pull free, but the extra second was enough time for the now-armed hostage to bring his weapon fully to bear and fire.

The bullet struck Steve's adversary in the left shoulder, knocking him backward and spinning him further around. As he went, Steve interposed himself between him and shooter, holding up his hands to urge the former hostage to stop firing. The shooter hesitated, keeping his weapon trained on the man, but did not fire again.

Steve turned to check on the man he had been fighting only moments before. He lay on the ground, bleeding, but to Steve's trained eye, the wound was not fatal. He still wasn't sure what the man's motivation had been, but whatever it was, it hadn't claimed his life.

Steve looked into his still-conscious eyes, searching, but the man offered nothing but pain and determination.

Behind him, Steve heard footsteps approach. He looked up and found the armed former hostage standing nearby. His weapon was lowered, but in his other hand he held Steve's shield. Behind him, the other hostages had gathered around. All of them looked at Steve with a mixture of gratitude and awe.

"Are you really him?" asked a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, tentatively.

"Of course it's him!" said a nearby man, himself middle-aged and bearded. "Didn't you see what he did?"

The first man, the man who had retrieved the gun, offered him the shield.

"Thank you," he said, almost reverently. Steve looked into his eyes and saw equal measures of respect, awe, and hope, and he suddenly understood how deep this man's need for a hero was. As he accepted the offered shield, the symbol of all he stood for, he looked around and saw similar looks in the eyes of all the others.

"That's what I'm here for," he said.

* * *

The gathered crowd outside had been even more enthusiastic than the poor souls he had rescued. From his first appearance at the doors of the bank, his shield borne proudly on his arm for all to see, they had erupted in cheers. Even the police seemed happy to see him, despite the fact that he had upstaged the SWAT team that was on scene by then.

Since then, all the major news networks had featured wall-to-wall coverage of the reappearance of Captain America. What began that morning as a noteworthy story had been transformed into a media frenzy by his successful thwarting of a major bank robbery. The events of the day had been covered and recovered in every imaginable detail, and every analyst who could find a camera and a microphone had an opinion about where Captain America would go from here. Most people seemed to assume that President Stark had offered him a job during their meeting at the White House that morning, but opinions differed on what exactly that job might be. Everything from Secretary of State to a five-star military commission had been floated, but there was little consensus. The one thing everyone agreed on was that something big was coming.

After he had returned to the tower, Paige had followed him around and chattered happily about all the attention he was receiving and the universe of options in front of him, while carefully emphasizing her hope that we would assume command of the new team of Avengers. Eventually, when his mood proved melancholy, her enthusiasm had waned and she had left him alone in Command and Control. Before she left, she flagged all the media coverage for him in case he changed his mind, but he ignored it all. She also set a bowl of Mike & Ike Root Beer Float candies on the workstation counter for him—they had been his favorite in the 1940s.

Even as every cable network ran retrospectives on Captain America's illustrious career, both during World War II and after he had been found by the original Avengers, he kept it all turned off. He had no interest in rehashing the past, and he had only slightly more interest in learning about all the various individuals who had tried to take up his mantle over the years.

He was still deeply troubled by his options. The current state of the country seemed dire from his perspective, even more so now that he had seen the people's hunger for a hero firsthand. He had never been entirely comfortable with all the adulation that had been heaped at Captain America's feet over the years, but he had come to regard it as necessary and healthy for the American psyche over the years. People needed heroes to show them a better way to love, an ideal to strive for, a tradition to live up to. This new era of government-approved agents seemed too vulnerable to hijacking by private agendas for his taste. Control at the top gave those in power the ability to shape public opinion instead of responding to it, and in the wrong hands that could be dangerous.

Which brought him back to Tony Stark.

It was true that he and Stark were old friends and teammates dating back to their time together as Avengers, but it was also true that they had been at odds over the years as often as they had been in accord. Stark's first instinct was to bend the world around him to his will, either through technological, financial, or legal means. He usually had good intentions, to be sure, but he also had more potential than anyone else Steve knew to use those good intentions to pave the road to hell. In the past, they had always been on equal footing, but accepting Stark's offer would mean placing himself in an explicitly subordinate role. Could he do that? Could he function that way? What would happen when they disagreed?

On the other hand, what Peggy had pointed out earlier in the day was still true. He knew he couldn't give up being Captain America altogether. The day's events had proven that, if nothing else. The need was too great, and it was too much a part of him to ignore. That meant that if he wasn't going to accept Stark's offer, he may as well pack up and start running from the authorities now. He was all too aware that his own actions at the bank were a violation of the Superhuman Registration Act for anyone without a government stamp of approval. That wouldn't stop him from acting in an emergency, of course, but did he really want to spend his time running from the law?

He didn't sleep much that night, dozing only fitfully in Command and Control, unwilling even to occupy the apartment that had been set aside for him downstairs. Doing so would feel like a concession to what now felt like a foregone conclusion. Fortunately, lack of sleep didn't take its toll on his enhanced body much, certainly not to the extent of a normal person, so the morning found him feeling not much worse for wear, despite his mounting frustration.

Around mid-morning, Steve heard the doors behind him open. From the monitoring equipment all around him, which included internal security monitors, he knew the entire team and the building's support personnel were on site, but no one had disturbed him since the night before. Evidently, Jarvis was not in residence, or Steve would have been offered food and refreshments at some point during the night. As it was, only one person seemed likely to intrude on his solitude.

"Hello, Paige," he said without turning to look. Her light footsteps approached.

"Morning, Cap," she said in that cheerful tone that only young women could master.

Steve grunted. He felt like a caged animal, denied any operation but cooperation with his masters. Reflexively, he glanced at a side screen that displayed the brief message he had received from Stark the night before.

"Can I announce your new job?" it asked, simply, but the subtext was undeniable. _You have no other choice,_ it seemed to say.

Paige followed his gaze and seemed to know what he was thinking. Instead of responding, she reached over and tapped a series of commands into the main console before him. The large display changed from small, muted images of various stages in Captain America's career to a single, large image of what looked like a disaster area. An overhead view, probably from a helicopter-mounted camera, showed an area of devastation about two or three city blocks in diameter. Crumbled buildings and walls were everywhere, and smoke and dust filled the air. At one edge, moving east, a large, humanoid figure moved with violent purpose, tearing chunks out of the ground and knocking down structures. Smaller figures, people, were fleeing the area, no doubt in fear of their lives.

It got Steve's attention.

"I thought you should see this before you made a decision," Paige said, quietly.

Steve quickly sat up and keyed the audio, all frustration gone now. As he always did in emergencies, he focused on the matter at hand.

". . . the scene between Webster Avenue and Park Avenue as a large, orange monster, tentatively identified as a troll, runs rampant through the city, destroying buildings and vehicles seemingly at random as it calls out for Thor, the legendary God of Thunder, who has not been seen in New York for almost a decade. Police have begun cordoning off the area, as authorities . . ."

Steve muted the audio again, having heard enough. The moment he had been dreading was finally upon him, the moment where he would have to make a decision and fully commit to one choice or the other. Despite that, he felt strangely calm. The clarity he always felt in emergency situations had taken hold, and all he saw now were operational considerations. The choice was clear, and at least for the moment, he felt no ambivalence.

Off to the side, another monitor called for his attention. It displayed current government activity on SHIELD-designated communications frequencies and specifically flagged any emergency response transmissions for his review. Steve recalled that his new position gave him authority over Omega- and Alpha-Level threats and emergencies, per Stark's briefing the day before, and he was sure a troll tearing up the Bronx qualified. Keeping the news reports silent, he keyed the audio for the flagged SHIELD priority channel.

". . . target is moving northwest in the direction of the police precinct and the Cross Bronx Expressway! Request immediate interdiction!"

"Acknowledged. Rapid response team is en route, alpha-priority. ETA is ten minutes. Continue crowd control measures and await arrival."

"We don't have ten minutes! That overpass doesn't stand a chance against that monster! We're about to have mass casualties!"

Steve triggered the signal override and activated his audio pickup.

"Terminate SHIELD response," he said into the audio pickup, allowing his normal command tone to come through. It was an authority that came naturally to him. "Evacuate the surrounding buildings and establish a perimeter at a radius of six blocks. Do _not_ engage the hostile."

"Who is this?" demanded a female voice with a command tone of its own. "What's your authorization?"

Steve took a deep breath and gathered himself for the moment of truth. His next words would dominate the news cycle for days to come, played and replayed by every news station, variety show, and podcast imaginable. There was no going back after this.

"This is Avengers Director Steve Rogers, ultraviolet priority. I am declaring an Alpha-Level Emergency. Fall back and await further instructions. Avengers deployment is under way."

Before anyone could respond, Steve cut the transmission and silenced the audio. Then he triggered the building-wide intercom.

"All active-duty field personnel, report to the Quinjet hanger for immediate deployment. This is _not_ a drill."

His voice rang through the halls and rooms on every floor, alerting everyone in the building that the team was about to go operational. Behind him, he felt Paige beaming at him with pride. The electricity in the air was palpable.

"I repeat," he said, "Avengers assemble!"

END


	2. D-Day

TEN YEARS FROM NOW

NEW YORK CITY

10:22 AM

The ground shook again with a thunderous boom, and Kerri tried to squirm further under the desk she was hiding under. A few bits of ceiling and wall fell to the floor around her, one landing on the desk above, but the building remained largely intact.

All around her, the shelves of the store had mostly emptied themselves of boxed auto parts, fluids, and other automotive products. Even the computers the staff used to keep track of inventory and to sell products lay on the ground, smashed to pieces. Whatever was happening outside had not been kind to the auto parts store she worked in, but at least the building hadn't collapsed.

When the ground started shaking, everyone else had fled. Customers and employees alike had vacated the premises as quickly as possible, leaving her trapped under a shelf that had tipped over. She had managed to dig herself out and find a desk to climb under, but now she was alone and had to fend for herself. On some level, she was offended—not one person had offered to help her reach safety, but at the moment her survival instinct wouldn't allow her to worry about her wounded ego. Survival was top priority at the moment.

Cautiously, she poked her head out and peered around, hoping to see a clear escape route to the street outside. She'd have to make it on her own, she knew, but she wasn't terribly confident that she could do so without injury.

Another boom rattled the store from the outside, and Kerri reflexively pulled herself back under the desk. Just as quickly, however, she braced herself and slowly ventured out again. The sounds of destruction outside were getting louder, and she knew her chances of escaping uninjured were diminishing with each passing moment.

Suddenly, she heard a crash from the front of the store near the door, as if someone had knocked a shelf over and spilled its contents onto the floor. That was crazy, she knew. All the shelves in the store had already fallen over in the first few minutes of shaking. Had something shifted? Or was she not alone after all?

"Hello?" came a shout. "Is anyone in here?"

The voice sounded normal enough, but in a world of mutants and superhumans, one could never be sure.

"Are you hurt?" called the voice.

The room shook violently again, and her heart raced. She couldn't help herself. The chance that the newcomer could offer some measure of help or safety was too tempting to pass up.

"I'm here!" she shouted, hesitantly.

"Are you hurt?" the voice repeated.

She shook her head, reflexively, then realized that whoever was out there couldn't see her.

"No!" she answered aloud.

Another crash filled the store. This time she was sure the newcomer was pushing or knocking things aside. Part of her was annoyed at the mess he was making, but another part of her was annoyed with herself for caring about something like that at a time like this.

"Stay there!" he told her. "I'll come to you!"

Several more crashes followed, occasionally punctuated by grunts or yelps of pain as the stranger made his way toward her across the ruined store. When the shaking didn't resume for several moments, Kerri dared to slip out from under the service desk and peek over the top of it.

The man who was approaching was young, in his early twenties, about her age. He had longish blonde hair and clear blue eyes. His thin build probably helped with navigating the maze of wrecked and overturned shelving and automotive goods, but twice he slipped before quickly recovered his balance without falling. Under other circumstances, she might have thought he was cute, but at the moment her only concern was escaping her former place of employment alive.

He saw her watching him and stopped where he was.

"We need to get you out of here," he explained from across the room. "Can you meet me halfway? I'll help you get out."

Kerri glanced back toward the rear of the store and conceded that she'd never make it to the store's back door by herself. The products they kept in the back were much heavier and bulkier than those in the front, too heavy for her to dig through. Like it or not, the front door and the blonde boy offering to help were the only game in town.

Looking back toward him, she nodded and climbed awkwardly over the desk.

Haltingly, she eased herself down onto a partially collapsed shelf, holding onto the desk for balance and silently praying that the room wouldn't violently shift to one side again. Ahead of her, the blonde boy continued to climb carefully toward her.

When he reached a long piece of toppled shelving, he stopped and set his feet as best he could. Then he reached down and heaved the piece of shelving aside, shifting all the items that had fallen on top of and underneath it with a loud racket. That had definitely been the source of the crashing sounds earlier, she decided. Stealth did not appear to be his forte.

With that out of the way, he reached out a hand toward her, urging her to take it. Kerri swallowed, realizing she had little choice, and grasped his hand in her own.

He pulled her toward him, careful not to pull too fast for her to keep her balance as she went. When she got close, the room shook violently again. He held tightly to her hand and pulled her close, trying to steady her.

Kerri thought she could hear shouting outside; a deep, booming voice that reverberated through her bones. It filled her with dread.

"What is that?" she asked, not sure if she wanted the stranger to tell her or not. To her relief, he ignored the question and instead helped her cross the room. The footing was unsteady, threatening to collapse under her weight with every step, but they eventually made it to the partially blocked front door.

As they ducked underneath a beam that had collapsed and settled across the door, the ground shook again and the ceiling of the room they had just been in gave way, crushing everything beneath it. Kerri realized that if the blonde boy hadn't come along when he did, she would now be trapped underneath all of that, if she hadn't been killed outright.

As they fled from the building, Kerri looked back and saw a monstrous orange figure wearing a green breastplate moving past the rear of the building. While it didn't seem to be paying any attention to them, it was clear that the figure was the source of the damage to all the nearby buildings she was seeing. She had no trouble believing that a blow from one of its massive hands could knock a hole in the side of a brick building.

"Face me, God of Thunder!" it shouted. "How many of these ridiculous mortals must I maim or kill before you confront me like a warrior?"

"What does it want?" she asked aloud, terrified.

Her rescuer turned to watch as the massive beast moved slowly away, intent on causing more havoc and destruction.

"Me," he muttered, grimly.

Earth _'_ s Mightiest

#2

D-Day

" _Teamwork requires some sacrifice up front; people who work as a team have to put the collective needs of the group ahead of their individual interests."_

 _-Patrick Lencioni_

The Quinjet flew low over the city, headed north from Stark Tower in midtown. Ahead of them, a large plume of smoke and dust was visible in the distance, marking the aircraft's destination.

In the cockpit, Captain America watched grimly from the copilot's seat. He had been startled at how different this craft's controls were from the Quinjets he was used to. It shouldn't have surprised him, given how much time he'd spent in cryogenic suspension, but realizing he wasn't actually qualified to fly the craft had been a bit humbling. Adding to his annoyance was the swift realization that no one on his new team was currently checked out on the advanced Quinjet, leaving them without a pilot for their first field deployment.

Which was where Paige came in.

She sat now in the pilot's seat, deftly operating the touchscreen controls with one hand and operating the craft's control yoke with the other. She had happily, and insistently, offered her services to get the team to their drop point, and he was sure that her presence as the only qualified pilot available was no coincidence. He was faced with few options, however, so he'd been forced to accept her offer, at least for this mission. He was determined not to let it become a habit for the president's daughter to fly them into combat.

Before boarding, Captain America had taken a moment to don his new costume. It was Stark-designed, of course, but remained consistent with his desire for a combat suit rather than Stark's preference for armor. It kept with the basic design of his classic costume, but this one was made of a vibranium mesh similar to Black Panther's costume and incorporated a number of technological devices and tools that he would have to spend some time familiarizing himself with. Tony just couldn't resist.

Behind him, the rest of his new team was harnessed into their jump seats, quietly preparing to go into combat. Trick Shot, their resident archer and weapons specialist, checked and rechecked his various trick arrows and other equipment, making sure everything was in place and ready; Syren, their close-quarters combat and sonic specialist, sat with her eyes closed, centering herself before entering the chaos of an emergency situation; and Rampage, their massive powerhouse with an appearance resembling a bull, shadow boxed and warmed himself up as best he could while strapped into his seat.

"One minute to landing zone," announced Paige as she adjusted the controls to bring them in lower.

"Remember your orders," Captain America told her. "You're to put down just long enough for the rest of us to deploy, then withdraw to a safe distance."

Paige nodded, glibly.

"Aye, aye, Cap," she said. "Drop and pop, observation only. You got it."

"Take this seriously, young lady," he chastised her. "A troll is nothing to take lightly. They're extremely dangerous."

"The only thing that's going to be dangerous about him after he meets you guys will be his breath," she declared, confidently. "So, uh, don't let him burp on you or anything."

Instead of admonishing her again, he glanced back at his team. From their files, he knew they all had extensive combat and field experience, but there had been no time to train with them or gauge their skill levels himself. He had no idea how they would perform in the field as a group.

He just hoped they would follow his lead. The stakes were too high for anything less.

* * *

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

The overhead light flickered on automatically as Steve Rogers stepped into the room, Paige only a step or two behind him.

"And this is the director's office," she said, happily. "From here, you have complete access to the computer systems, a full range of worldwide television and radio broadcasts, and a fully secure communications system."

Steve looked around. It was a larger office than anything he had ever had before; not quite massive, but certainly large enough to meet with his entire team and a number of guests, if need be. The desk, at the far end of the room, was backed by three large windows that afforded him a breathtaking view of the city from their vantage point some ninety stories up, and the credenzas below were adorned with framed replicas of historic American documents. He saw copies of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and even the Articles of Confederation, along with various treaties, declarations, and writs.

The center of the room was dominated by a large conference table and chairs, with enough room to comfortably seat ten. A large Avengers logo was etched onto the surface of the table. The wall opposite the desk and windows featured a floor-to-ceiling display screen that currently showed the weather conditions at key locations around the world and a news ticker at the bottom. Of the remaining two walls, one was covered in a montage of World War II memorabilia while the other was decorated with Avengers memorabilia and photos from Steve's time on the team. Someone had spared no expense to make the place feel like it was meant for him.

Paige watched him, expectantly.

"Pretty cool, right?" she asked, smiling widely.

Steve could feel himself being steered into making a decision that other people wanted him to make. Tony Stark should have known better. Steve didn't like being manipulated.

"You know," he said, strolling casually around the room, "there have been times in my life when I've had absolutely nothing: no friends, no family, nowhere to live and not a penny to my name. Not even this." He raised a hand to one of the shoulder straps that secured his shield to his back. "It made me really think about who I am and what I'm here for, what my purpose is."

He spread his arms to take in the entire room and the building beyond.

"None of this is necessary," he told her. "I've been an Avenger with less, and I've walked away from the team with more. It won't affect my decision one way or the other. This is more your father's style than mine."

He expected her to be a little put off, but she just nodded and continued to smile.

"I know," she said. "My dad likes to impress people with money, but I know that's not you."

"Then what is me?" he asked, a bit more harshly than he had intended.

"Service," she replied, without missing a beat. "The chance to help people who need it. The opportunity to be a part of something bigger. And the call to do what's right, no matter what."

Steve was discomfited at having been read so easily by someone he had just met. It must have showed on his face.

"I've read all the files on you," she explained. "All of the books, too. Every documentary, every news article and profile, everything. I even saw that godawful movie they made a few years ago, the one with that Evans guy. He was way too skinny to be you."

"Someone made a movie about me?" he asked, mildly startled.

"My point is, I know everything there is to know about you. Your whole life history. My dad may like to show off, and he may think you'll take this job if he offers you enough toys and advantages to go with it, but _I_ know you'll take it because you can't stand by and watch when people need help."

Steve flexed his jaw, feeling uncomfortably transparent.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked her.

Paige approached him and, before he realized what she was doing, kissed him lightly on the cheek just as he had seen her kiss her father earlier in the day.

"Because I believe in Captain America," she said, quietly, looking him directly in the eyes.

Then she turned and left.

* * *

NOW

Paige maneuvered the Quinjet wide around their target area and approached from the north. The plan was to deploy the team between the hostile and the Cross Bronx Expressway, which lay directly in its path. As they passed over it, Paige glanced down and saw that it was full of vehicles. While it wasn't at rush hour levels, there were still a lot of people down there who would be hurt or killed if the expressway was destroyed the way other structures in the hostile's path had been.

Captain America indicated a landing spot just north of what looked like a lumber yard and watched with growing respect as she cycled the aircraft into VTOL mode and triggered both the rear loading ramp and the landing gear while still in midair. Under her skilled hand, the craft spun around to point its rear loading ramp in the hostile's direction as it descended. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she was a trained military pilot.

On cue, the team unbuckled and moved swiftly to the back.

"Touchdown in three, two, one, _go_!" she called out.

Deftly, the Quinjet's landing gear and loading ramp made contact with the ground. She counted out four seconds, then lifted off again, cycling the landing gear and loading ramp closed and gaining altitude quickly.

"Good hunting," she told them over comms. "I expect a troll-skin throw rug for the living room when this is over."

"Keep this line clear," Captain America admonished her.

Paige frowned and stuck out her tongue at him, knowing full well that he couldn't see her.

"You're no fun, Cap."

* * *

Kerri had gone from terrified to furious in about two-point-five seconds.

"What the hell do you mean 'you'?"

Her rescuer had walked away after successfully getting her outside, but now she pursued him, demanding answers.

"What, you saved my life and now you're just going to ignore me?" she demanded as he kept walking.

"It's a long story," he told her over his shoulder.

"We seem to have plenty of time!" she retorted, spreading her arms to encompass the destruction all around them.

Above, a low-flying aircraft of unusual design passed by, distinctively out of place in their war-torn surroundings. The blonde boy stopped and turned back, watching it as it passed. His face spoke of a sort of desperate hope.

"Why would a monster like that be looking for someone like you?" she continued when he didn't respond. "You don't look like anything special."

The boy shot her a look that said _thanks for that_ , but he didn't voice the sentiment.

"My dad beat that guy up a couple of times," he said instead.

"Your dad beat that guy up?" she echoed, incredulously.

"My family isn't exactly normal," he grimaced, still trying to follow the aircraft in the sky. It had passed them by and disappeared in the surrounding smoke plumes before reappearing from the same direction.

"Do you think?" she snapped, paying no attention to the sky. "Who picks a fight with a giant Furby on steroids?"

"He didn't pick it," he told her, shaking his head. "He was trying to save people."

Blowing her off, he turned and began walking again. Nevertheless, she persisted.

"So that's it?" she demanded, still following. "Your dad saves people from guys like that and you're just going to leave people to die?"

He spun toward her again.

"He's _looking_ for me!" he snarled. "He's tearing down buildings and threatening to hurt people! All I can do now is make it worse! Someone else is taking care of it!"

"So you're just going to let someone else solve your problem," she said, waving her hand toward the aircraft that now seemed to be settling toward a landing in the middle distance. It was a statement, not a question. "You know, for a minute there, I thought you might be a good guy."

A piercing cry interrupted their argument. It was unmistakably a cry for help. Kerri and the blonde boy glanced at each other for just an instant before taking off at a run toward the sound. Together, they rounded the corner of a partially crumbled building and found an overturned school bus that had collided with a wall. The cry had come from inside.

Again, they glanced at each other, both nodding slightly in silent agreement, and charged toward the bus.

* * *

Rampage was the largest and most powerful member of the team, so he took point.

Steadily, deliberately, he strode forward toward the hostile, who was still mostly obscured by smoke and dust. He could hear a loud, deep voice shouting from that direction. As he watched, an entire building wall crumbled and fell under some massive impact.

"Odinson!" shouted the voice. "I can smell your Asgardian stench! Why do you hide like a coward?"

Rampage glanced around, trying to decide if anyone else was there. The area was supposed to have been evacuated. Who was this "Odinson" the hostile was talking to? Did he mean Thor?

"Steady," said Captain America over his earpiece. "Approach with caution. We still don't know what we're dealing with."

"It's a troll, right?" said Trick Shot. "Big and dumb. Just let the big guy take care of him so we can all go home."

"Stow the attitude, Trick Shot," Captain America retorted. "We'll do this by the numbers."

"Got it," said Rampage, continuing to move forward. By now, he had entered the cloud of smoke and could see the hostile only as a looming shadow.

His first job was to get the hostile's attention and focus it away from damaging property or hurting any civilians. Spotting a nearby chunk of building debris, he stooped down and picked it up. Then he wound up and threw it at the shadow.

The debris struck the figure squarely on the side of the head, eliciting a howl of pain and surprise. The figure stopped and seemed to face him.

"Who are you to interrupt my pillaging and destruction?" it demanded, seeming to sniff the air. "You are not Thor!"

"You're right," smirked Rampage. "I'm a whole lot prettier than golden boy! But I'll tell you the same thing he would: stop right there or I'll put you down!"

The figure chuckled, evilly.

"You boast of greatness, mortal, but you are _not_ the Odinson! I do not sense a tenth of his power in you! Prepare for battle!"

Suddenly, a massive orange beast wearing some sort of green torso armor burst from the cloud of smoke, charging straight for him. Rampage braced himself against the charge, confident in his ability to meet it despite the hostile's hairy, monstrous appearance.

Captain America's voice crackled over comms.

"No!" he shouted, urgently. "Don't meet him head on! That's Ulik!"

Rampage opened his mouth to ask who Ulik was, but the impact cut him off.

* * *

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

Rampage stood at attention to one side of the director's office. He had been offered a seat, but he knew from experience that his bulk was too much for normal office chairs to support. He'd accidentally crushed more of them than he'd care to admit.

Steve Rogers sat alone at the conference table, smiling at his guest.

"Thank you for meeting with me," he said.

"Yes, sir," said Rampage, respectfully.

Rogers leaned back in his chair and considered him, thoughtfully.

"At ease, soldier," he said. "I'm not your commanding officer, and I don't run the Avengers as a military unit in any event."

Rampage visibly relaxed and placed his hands behind his back in the "at ease" position, but remained where he was.

"Diego Martinez, age twenty four," Rogers continued, glancing at the file in front of him. "I see you grew up in California."

"Yes, sir," Diego nodded.

"Tell me about it," Rogers said.

Diego hesitated, not sure what to say. His superior officers rarely expressed any interest in his personal history.

"It's not something I like to talk about, sir," he said, carefully. "I made a lot of mistakes, but I'm trying to move past them now."

Rogers nodded in understanding.

"I see convictions for armed robbery, grand theft auto, and transporting or selling a controlled substance," he said. "You spent some time at O.H. Close Youth Correctional Facility in Stockton. But I also see all that stopped before your nineteenth birthday."

He fixed Diego with a penetrating stare.

"Why?" he asked, simply.

A long moment passed as silence filled the room. Diego squirmed under Rogers' intense scrutiny until he finally replied.

"I hurt someone," he admitted.

Rogers said nothing, waiting patiently for the younger man to continue.

"A couple of guys came at me. Bigger guys. They tried to drag me into a room alone." He was quiet for a moment before he continued. "I stabbed one of them with his own shank, and I broke the other guy's arm in two places and fractured his skull."

"Your mutant abilities had started to manifest," said Rogers. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, sir," nodded Diego.

"Then what happened?" prodded Rogers, gently.

"A SHIELD agent came to see me and offered me a choice. He told me what was happening, and he told me I could either join SHIELD and play by the rules or I could be transferred to someplace worse, someplace where I couldn't even have visitors or phone calls."

Rogers' eyes narrowed.

"You weren't offered ability suppression therapy?"

Diego snorted, dismissively, then composed himself quickly. He hadn't meant to be disrespectful.

"I wouldn't have taken it even if he'd offered it, sir. That would have just meant I'd have to stay at the youth facility."

"So you joined."

"Yes, sir," Diego nodded again. "It seemed like the best choice."

Rogers flipped through several pages in the file.

"You've done very well since then," he said. "A Meritorious Service Medal, two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, and a Legion of Merit. Very impressive."

Diego shrugged.

"I owe SHIELD my life, sir. I'm happy to serve however I can."

* * *

NOW

The force of Ulik's hit lifted Rampage off his feet, hurtling him backward until he collided with a heavy cement wall that crumbled upon impact. As he lay there amid the rubble, he marveled at the force with which Ulik, whoever he was, had hit him. He'd never been hit that hard before. He hadn't thought it _possible_ to be hit that hard.

As he slowly regained his senses, he became aware of the monstrous Ulik advancing on him, no doubt intent on dealing out more punishment. Captain America's voice rang in his ear over comms.

". . . Syren, draw his attention away from Rampage! Trick Shot, stand by on the high-tensile arrows!"

Above him, Ulik loomed, menacingly.

"Now, mortal," the monster snarled, raising a gigantic fist adorned with what looked like a massive set of brass knuckles. "Prepare to meet whatever gods you worship!"

* * *

The blonde boy had scaled the undercarriage of the bus, which was currently positioned like a side wall, and now stood on the side wall of the bus (currently the roof) looking down through the passenger windows.

"I'm going to need you up here," he called to Kerri, who was still on the ground, watching. "There's a bunch of little kids in here. I'm going to have to climb down there and hand them up to you."

Kerri frowned at him.

"Why not just open the emergency door in the back?" she asked.

The boy glanced toward the back of the bus, his brow furrowed in puzzlement, and Kerri got the distinct impression that he had never been on a school bus before.

"Hang on," he said. Then he knelt down and carefully lowered himself into the bus through an apparently open window.

Kerri circled around to the back of the bus and peered in through the window.

It was hard to judge numbers accurately, but she thought there were at least two dozen children inside, all in various states of panic and fear. The blonde boy was picking his way carefully toward the rear door, stepping around both the seats that were bolted to the bus's true floor and the frightened children.

When he made it to the door, he stopped for a moment and studied the inside of it. Then he took hold of the lever that would release it and put his shoulder into it. Grudgingly, it gave way and the door came loose, opening toward Kerri.

Before she could so more than pull the door fully open, her blonde friend had lifted the nearest child under both armpits and brought him to the door.

"Here," he said, handing the eight-year-old to her. She took him in her arms and set him down on the ground in time to be handed another child. One by one, the two young adults removed all the children from the bus until a small, crying crowd had formed at her feet.

Standing on her toes, she peeked over the edge of the open doorway. The boy had moved toward the middle of the bus and was kneeling next to the prone form of a man who had probably been knocked off his feet when the bus crashed. He sensed her eyes on him and looked up.

"I think this guy is a teacher," he called to her. "The driver is hurt, but he's awake. We need to get them out of here."

"Don't move them!" she told him. "Wait for the paramedics to show up!"

He frowned at her but didn't argue.

"Is he breathing?" she asked when he seemed unsure about what to do next.

Quickly, he checked and then nodded in her direction. She sighed in relief.

From off in the distance, the sound of emergency sirens began to drift toward them.

"Get those kids out of the way!" the boy told her. Realizing he was right, she turned and began ushering the group of children away from the bus.

When the emergency vehicles arrived, escorted by a police cruiser, the firefighters and paramedics leaped out and began triaging the children.

* * *

Syren scrambled to the top of a pile of debris in search of a better vantage point. She was all too aware that her martial skills, however formidable against normal human opponents, were all but useless against an honest-to-god troll. Her sonic collar, however, might be another story.

Ahead of her, she saw Ulik standing over Rampage's prone form. His huge, meaty fist was raised to deliver what promised to be a particularly devastating strike, one she wasn't sure her teammate could withstand in his present state. It was time to intervene.

Triggering the device she wore at the base of her neck, Syren opened her mouth and screamed.

The device amplified the natural sound of her voice to create a piercing shriek that registered at several hundred decibels. At the same time, it created a focused tunnel of sound that concentrated the sonic energy in a specific direction. She had learned to use it to shatter glass objects from a distance, when necessary, and to overwhelm individuals' senses as an offensive attack.

However large and frightening they might be, trolls proved to be just as susceptible to such attacks as anyone else.

Ulik immediately dropped to his knees, covering his ears in a vain attempt to escape the agonizing sound. For a moment, Syren allowed herself to believe he might be down, but then her lungs ran out of air. As impressive a weapon as her scream was, it only lasted as long as her lungs held air. Against normal people, that had always been enough to put them down for the count, but trolls appeared to be made of sterner stuff.

With his ears no doubt still ringing, Ulik reached down with one massive hand and snatched up a long piece of landscaping timber. Glancing in her direction, he hurled it at her like a javelin with all the strength of an enraged troll.

Almost absently, Syren wondered if she would survive being impaled.

* * *

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

Syren found herself sitting in a well-furnished and decorated conference room and office. World War II and Avengers memorabilia lined two of the walls, and she knew the electronics that covered a third wall did not come cheap. At the far end, a series of three large windows capped the last third of the room on three sides, creating a sort of fishbowl-like feeling and affording a breathtakingly panoramic view of the city below. Beneath the windows, a series of credenzas featured a number of framed historical documents, at the center of which was the U.S. Constitution. Altogether, it was an impressive workspace.

Across the conference table, Steve Rogers studied her and smiled, welcomingly.

"Thank you for coming, Agent Huxley," he said.

"Of course, Director," she replied, professionally.

Rogers shook his head, mildly.

"I'm not the director yet," he said. Was she imagining it, or did he seem a bit self-conscious about it? "I'm just doing some preliminary interviews before I make my decision."

Huxley glanced around at the room, as if to say _isn't this the director's office?_ She held her tongue, however.

"I see you went to the University of Virginia," he said, glancing down at her file. "You're a Mountaineer."

"That's West Virginia, sir," she corrected him, politely. "I'm a Cavalier."

Rogers nodded, accepting the correction before reading from her file as he continued.

"Army ROTC, full marks. Airborne School, Army Rangers, expert in hand-to-hand combat." He looked up at her. "I'm impressed. I'd love to spar a round or two in the training room."

She smiled at the compliment.

"I doubt I'd be a match for you, sir. I've seen some of your in-field footage. I'd just embarrass myself."

"Don't sell yourself short," he told her. "SHIELD doesn't recruit sub-par Army rangers."

This time she accepted the compliment without comment.

"Why SHIELD?" he asked her, at length. "You're not bound by the Registration Act. You didn't have to make that choice."

"I'm an Army brat, sir," she said. "My dad served, and so did my grandmother. It was natural for me to sign on, and SHIELD seemed like a natural next step."

"I see you've distinguished yourself in the field several times. Morocco, Budapest, Shanghai, even the incident in London last year."

"I go where they send me, sir," she said.

He glanced down again at her file, frowning slightly.

"I notice that you've never put in any requests for leave. Not once since you took your commission five years ago. Not after OTS, not after ranger school, no holidays or special occasions, not so much as a long weekend."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, but Huxley elected not to answer the unasked question. Finally, Rogers clasped his hands on the table in front of him.

"I'll be honest with you, Agent Huxley," he said. "May I call you Dinette?"

"I prefer 'Agent Huxley," sir," she said, stiffly.

Rogers took the rebuke in stride as if he had expected it.

"I'll be honest with you, Agent Huxley. Your record is impressive, but I'm more than a little concerned about burnout. When was the last time you spent any time with your family?"

Huxley stiffened visibly. She didn't like where the conversation had gone.

"My family and I don't speak much, sir," she bit out. "It's better that way. May I ask how this pertains to my qualifications for this team?"

"It has to do with your psychological fitness," he told her. "I've been doing this for a long time, Agent Huxley. I've seen a lot of good men and women come and go from the Avengers. It's a high-stress job. I need to be sure you can handle it, and I see nothing here to indicate that you have any kind of personal support network or that you ever take any sort of personal time."

They sat in silence for several moments, his last words hanging in the air between them.

"I haven't accepted this position yet," he finally continued, "but if I do, I'd like to see you make more of an effort to take some sort of personal time for yourself. I don't want this life to overwhelm you in the end.

"Dismissed."

* * *

NOW

The impact did not come from the direction Syren was expecting.

Instead of being struck head-on by a large wooden pole, she found herself tackled from the side by Captain America.

"Down!" he shouted as they went down. The massive javelin sailed harmlessly past overhead. Captain America quickly rolled to his feet and flung his shield in the troll's direction.

It impacted solidly against Ulik's head and bounced high into the air, further disorienting the enraged troll. Judging the distance like an outfielder, Captain America got under the shield and neatly caught it as it came down.

Ulik was momentarily stunned, but still not down. It would take quite a bit more than that to end things.

* * *

Kerri had let the rescue workers know about the people on the bus who needed help. While the paramedics were climbing through the bus's rear door, the firefighters had begun making cursory examinations of the children. In the process, they did a quick check of her as well.

After she was cleared, Kerri hung around to help with the children however she could. When the emergency workers started herding the children away from the scene of the wreck, she did her best to help. She also watched as the paramedics and her new friend carefully brought the two injured adults out of the bus on stretchers. One of the firefighters told her that the orange monster was being engaged by a new team of Avengers, and there was a sense of urgency in evacuating everyone from the area as quickly as possible.

As soon as she could, she slipped away and approached the blonde boy where he was standing and looking like he suddenly felt useless. The ambulance was loaded up and ready to go.

He saw her coming and made a face.

"Why are you still here?" he asked, pointedly.

"I could ask you the same question," she shot back. She wasn't angry anymore, but she wasn't going to just let him off the hook, either.

A moment passed as they studied each other, neither one saying anything but neither giving an inch, either. One of the police officers approached at a jog as the ambulance began pulling away.

"Let's go, kids," he told them, his tone brooking no argument.

Silently, the two young people turned and began walking in the direction indicated by the officer. They walked in silence for about a hundred meters before Kerri finally broke the silence.

"I don't even know your name," she muttered.

He glanced at her and grunted, but didn't respond.

"Fine," she said. "Then I'll call you 'Moody'. Like that guy from Harry Potter."

"Mad-Eye Moody?" he asked, skeptically.

"That's the one," she agreed, smirking. "He was grumpy, just like you."

"I'm not grumpy," he protested, half-heartedly. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Kerri took a deep breath and then pushed forward.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said earlier," she said. "You just saved a bus full of kids, so you're obviously a good guy. I just don't understand what your deal is."

"There's nothing to understand," he said. "That thing is looking for me. I have to get out of here. If I'm not around, maybe it'll leave."

"And if it doesn't?"

"The Avengers can handle it."

"How do you know? There hasn't been an Avengers since we were kids," she pointed out.

"I just know," he said, stubbornly. "The Avengers can handle anything."

Seeing that she wasn't getting anywhere, she decided to try a different approach.

"What is that thing, anyway?" she asked, gesturing vaguely in the monster's direction.

"It's a troll," he told her. "I think its name is Ulik. My dad fought him a couple of times when he was an Avenger."

Kerri's eyes widened.

"Your dad was an Avenger?"

Moody nodded, reluctantly.

"That was a long time ago," he said.

"Well, where is he?" she asked, a measure of urgency creeping into her voice. "Maybe he can help."

Moody shook his head.

"He can't help. He's dead."

* * *

Trick Shot knew it was his play.

The biggest advantage they had against the overwhelmingly powerful Ulik was teamwork. There were four of them to only one of him. If they could keep him confused and off balance, they might have a chance.

Ulik was obviously too tough for any of his trick arrows to do any real damage, but if all he really needed to do was be annoying, Trick Shot figured he could do that.

From his perch atop a nearby warehouse a dozen yards away, he notched three explosive-tipped arrows in rapid succession and fired. Their proximity sensors detonated them just before they struck Ulik. Against his tough skin, they did little real damage, but they certainly got his attention.

"Hey, ugly!" shouted Trick Shot. "Your breath stinks and your mother must have looked like a tractor!"

Ulik whirled in his direction, Syren and Captain America now forgotten.

"Foolish mortal!" he bellowed. "You court only death!"

Raising his immense fists, Ulik brought them smashing down on the ground in front of him with teeth-rattling force, creating a shockwave that radiated out in front of him. Too late, Trick Shot realized his miscalculation as the rooftop beneath him gave way along with the wall that supported it.

As he began to fall, he castigated himself over what a stupid way this would be to die.

* * *

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

Trick Shot entered the director's office at a casual stroll and looked around at his surroundings, appreciatively.

 _Nice,_ he thought. _I could see myself in here one day. Maybe one day soon._

Steve Rogers looked away from the news ticker he was following on the office's floor-to-ceiling monitor and turned to face him.

"Thank you for coming," he said, smiling.

Trick Shot nodded without looking at him, careful to appear unimpressed.

"Sure," he said. "No problem."

Rogers sat down at one side of the conference table and motioned for Trick Shot to take an empty one across from him. Trick Shot casually strolled over and sat down, leaning back and placing his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced, and his feet up on the conference table. Rogers' eyes narrowed as he watched.

"I've been reviewing your file," said Rogers, conversationally. "Top marks in virtually all types of weapons accuracy, excellent hand-to-hand combat qualifications, and certifications as an explosive ordinance expert. Not normally the kind of thing the son of a wealthy family excels in."

Trick Shot shrugged.

"I was a troubled youth," he said, smirking. "I found comfort where I could."

"So you didn't pick up any of those skills in Africa?"

Trick Shot's cocksure smile froze. Suddenly, the look in his eyes seemed a bit more wary. He sat up in his seat and leaned forward across the table, his hands now on its polished surface, and regarded Rogers with a new appreciation.

"Well," he said, quickly regaining his composure. "I guess that wasn't classified as high as I was promised."

"Call if a favor from an old friend," said Rogers, watching him carefully. "I like to know who I'm working with."

"Then you know I can be trusted."

"Can you?" countered Rogers, coldly. "I happen to consider King T'Challa a friend."

"A friend?" asked Trick Shot, incredulously, half-rising from his chair. "What kind of friend leads the opposition when you're trying to secure your national security?"

"The kind that's still trying to save you from yourself even after you've given up."

Trick Shot stared at him for a long moment before settling into his seat again.

"Well, I can see we're going to disagree on some things," he said. The cocksure smile was back.

"No," said Rogers, icily. "We won't."

"I beg your pardon?" asked Trick Shot, startled.

"We won't be having any disagreements," repeated Rogers, firmly. "If I'm leading this team, you'll follow my orders. There will be no back channel communications to SHIELD or anyone else, no secondary missions or instructions from outside this building, no undercover operations without my express approval."

Rogers stood and leaned forward, bracing himself on the table to look down at the other man.

"You see," he said, warming to his subject, "I've read your file; your _entire_ file, even the part that pre-dates SHIELD. I know what you were actually doing when you were travelling with your father, pretending to be interested in the family business, and I know who you were doing it _for_. There will be no extracurricular activities of any kind, at anyone else's direction, while you're an Avenger or I'll pull your clearance and dump you on a Quinjet to Wakanda myself."

Trick Shot was suddenly on his feet, his chair tipped over on the carpet behind him, glaring at Rogers from across the table.

"You can't do that!" he shouted. "Turning me over to Wakanda would be a Federal crime!"

Rogers allowed one side of his mouth to curl up in his own version of a cocksure smirk.

"I'm Captain America, son," he told him. "I'm sure the president will pardon me."

Trick Shot seethed in fury, but swallowed his reply.

"I know President Stark assigned you to this team personally," Rogers continued, "but if I agree to take this job, you'll work for _me_ and no one else—not SHIELD, not the CIA, and not Stark. Am I absolutely, perfectly crystal clear?"

Trick Shot swallowed, almost imperceptibly, and nodded.

"Yes, sir," he bit out, resentment oozing from every pore.

"Dismissed, Agent Rouse."

* * *

NOW

Trick Shot knew he was in trouble, but he also knew exactly what to do about it.

Almost without thinking, he reached back and pulled a high-tensile arrow from his quiver, notched it, and let it fly. As it went, the rear tip caught on the center of his bow by a pair of small hooks designed to anchor it there. The rear tip detached while the rest of the arrow flew forward, unwinding a high-tensile monofilament strong enough to hold the weight of two men.

The arrow arced up over the edge of the crumbling roof before arcing downward and burying its specially-designed tip into the roof, anchoring it there. The cable locked, arresting Trick Shot's fall, while also allowing enough elasticity to prevent serious injury to his arms from the sudden stop.

Relying on muscle memory from long hours of practice, Trick Shot pulled up on his bow just as the monofilament line reached its maximum stretching point and began to recoil, giving him enough upward momentum to clear the edge of the crumbled roof and land gracefully on his feet.

He knew his reprieve would be short-lived. As soon as he had regained his feet, he whirled around in search of Ulik.

As expected, the troll had watched as he rescued himself from the fall and was now charging in his direction, bellowing in rage.

Trick Shot glanced around, quickly assessing his options for escape, but was interrupted by a far louder, more mechanical roar from overhead. He looked up and found the Quinjet swooping in from above, headed directly toward Ulik.

* * *

Kerri didn't know what to say. It wasn't every day that someone you'd just met confessed that a parent who was obviously important to them was dead. It was a conversation-stopper, for sure.

"I'm sorry," she managed. "How?"

Moody nodded toward where they knew the Avengers were fighting Ulik, but didn't answer.

"Ulik?" she asked, incredulously.

"Not him specifically," he said. "The job killed him. It was too much for him."

Kerri thought about that for a moment.

"So what makes you think that guy is looking for you?" she asked, finally.

"It's a long story," he said, "but I can basically do the same thing my dad could do, and I think Ulik can sense it when I do."

"What can you do?"

Moody sighed and looked at her a bit wistfully.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said.

"There's a troll tearing up the Bronx," she countered, "and it's fighting the Avengers. Try me."

Moody studied her as they walked, probably trying to decide if she was serious or not.

For her part, she wasn't sure if she believed him, but it was clear he believed it. Earlier, she would have told him to go show his face to the monster, even if it killed him, in the hope that it might save everyone else, but now she found that she didn't want him to get hurt. He had just saved a busload of kids, after all. That was kind of sexy.

"Always the weird ones," she muttered to herself.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she told him.

* * *

Paige deftly maneuvered the Quinjet on VTOL thrusters between Trick Shot and the quickly advancing Ulik. She had been monitoring the battle from three hundred feet in the air and had seen how the team was struggling.

Lining up Ulik in the Quinjet's computer-controlled sights, she triggered the aircraft's SHIELD-issue pulse cannons. He took the volley dead center in the chest, stopping his advance and eliciting a howl of pain. A few stray rounds hit the dirt around him, kicking up a fresh cloud of dust in the air that obscured her view of him.

"I got him!" she shouted, gleefully, into her comms.

"As you were!" snapped Captain America. "You were ordered to stay at a safe distance!"

"Aaron was about to get killed by a walking orange mountain!" she argued. "I just saved his li-"

Suddenly, Ulik appeared from the midst of the dust cloud, leaping straight at her. He landed with a crash on the nose of the aircraft, pitching it forward and straining its engines.

Paige frantically tried to right the craft but struggled against the force of gravity pushing her against the control panel in front of her. The sound of alarms filled the Quinjet's cabin as virtually every flight system screamed for her attention. Through the transparent canopy, she could see the monster's angry face glaring down at her.

 _oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit_

"Vision!" she screamed. "Help!"

Instantly, the Vision's red, synthetic face filled one of the side screens. The forward thrusters increased their output, and the aircraft seemed to tremble as it struggled to right itself under the troll's weight.

"How may I be of assistance, Ms. Hiromoto?" he asked, politely.

" _Get rid of the troll!"_ she screamed.

"As you wish," he said.

Immediately, the Quinjet pitched forward again until it was standing straight up on its nose.

"Not what I meant! _Not what I meant!_ " she screamed again, keeping her seat only because of the flight harness that held her in it.

With Ulik now hanging from the exterior of the Quinjet, the aircraft's skin electrified itself, sending tens of thousands of volts of electricity surging through Ulik's body. He roared in pain again and dropped to the ground, allowing the Quinjet to finally right itself.

"May I suggest an increased altitude for safety?" asked the Vision, as the Quinjet's thrusters pushed it swiftly into the air.

Paige slumped back into her seat.

"Thanks, Viz," she said, wearily.

* * *

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

Steve Rogers collapsed into the heavy desk chair in the director's office and leaned back, covering his face with both hands for a moment and letting out a sigh.

"Are you distressed, Captain?"

Steve took his hands from his face and opened his eyes to find the Vision's holographic form standing on the other side of the desk. His yellow, synthetic eyes seemed to study him, curiously.

"A little," Steve admitted.

The Vision said nothing, patiently waiting for him to continue.

"They're all SHIELD agents," said Steve, motioning toward the conference table to indicate the three teammates he had interviewed.

"The Avengers have included former SHIELD agents in the past," the Vision pointed out.

"I know that," admitted Steve, not sure if he was more annoyed with the Vision or himself. "I've worked for SHIELD in the past, too. But we've never fielded a team made up exclusively of SHIELD agents. I don't know any of them and I don't know where their loyalties really lie."

"Would you prefer a team roster of your own choosing?" the Vision asked, cocking his head to the side, quizzically.

"Very much so," said Steve, exasperated.

Suddenly, the far wall of the room lit up and displayed a large collage of faces with names displayed below, dozens of them. Steve recognized very few of them, but he knew he was looking at a new generation, successors to what he now thought of as the golden age of heroes, all thoroughly reviewed and government approved.

It left a bad taste in his mouth.

"They're all SHIELD, aren't they?" he asked, studying the images.

"That _is_ the law now, Captain," said the Vision, helpfully.

Steve knew he was right. There was no avoiding it. Any recruit he chose would inevitably have already gone through SHIELD's training and orientation process. If they hadn't they would be criminals and ineligible for the team. His options were limited, and that was by design.

Rather than wallow in frustration, he turned to another subject that had been on his mind.

"How did you get here, Vision?" he asked his old teammate.

"As President Stark explained, my programming has been incorporated into the Stark Tower mainframe. I have complete access to the building and all its functions. In addition, I am able to access outside systems and devices through wireless and hard-wired connections, though my central core remains here."

"'What happened to your body?' is what I mean," said Steve.

"I am told there was a confrontation with Ultron," answered the Vision. "My physical body was damaged beyond repair. President Stark was able to access my basic personality matrix in protected memory and download it into a serviceable core of his own design, but I am afraid I lost several weeks' worth of data in the process."

Steve's brow furrowed.

"Where's your body now?"

"Cold storage at Project Pegasus. It is quite secure, though it remains unserviceable."

"I'm sorry, Vision," said Steve, sympathetically.

"There is no need, Captain," the Vision assured him. "I am quite functional here, and have access to virtually limitless amounts of information. President Stark depends on me to ensure Stark Tower remains fully operational."

"But you can't ever leave."

The Vision shook his head, mildly.

"That is not entirely accurate," he said. "As I indicated, I have access to outside systems, including full access to all Stark-designed facilities, vehicles, and devices. In addition, I can physically interact with the outside world through the use of a mobile holographic emitter, though such interaction is limited to the range of the emitter."

"It sounds like you've made the best of a bad situation," sighed Steve. "Maybe I should follow your lead."

The Vision said nothing.

"What do you think about all this?" Steve asked at length, motioning to the large screen on the other side of the room.

The Vision turned to study the screen full of faces, an affectation left over from his days of having a physical body.

"The law today does allow for a greater level of superhuman accountability than has ever been possible before," he said, thoughtfully. "However, it does contribute to a marked uniformity of thinking. Previous Avengers rosters were . . . quite different."

"Agreed," Steve grunted, looking at his options with palpable displeasure.

* * *

NOW

Ulik lay sprawled on the ground, his body twitching with the last remnants of the electricity from the Quinjet's defense systems.

Captain America knew he wasn't finished yet.

Slowly, Ulik pushed himself to his knees, shaking his head to clear it. All around him, the four active Avengers surrounded him.

"That's enough, Ulik," warned Captain America. "I don't know what this is all about, but if you stay down we can sort it out."

"It is about Thor, mortal!" snarled Ulik, slowly regaining his composure. "Bring him to me, and I will allow the rest of you to live!"

"Thor isn't here," Captain America told him. "No one has seen him in years. This is pointless."

"Liar!" accused Ulik. "I can smell his foul Asgardian stench! Bring him to me or I will tear this pitiful city apart until I find him!"

With a roar, the monstrous Ulik launched himself at Captain America, arms outstretched, seeking to get his hands on him.

Ever the tactician, Captain America was ready for him. Hopping neatly over the charging troll, he placed one hand on top of the monster's head to use as a pivot point while he used the other to insert a small gas pellet from his belt into Ulik's wide-open mouth. Immediately, a cloud of sevoflurane filled Ulik's mouth and lungs.

Captain America was gratified to see Ulik stumble and appear to lose his balance. Seveflurane was a powerful anesthetic that, evidently, worked on trolls as well as humans.

A moment later, just as Ulik seemed about to fall to his knees in the dirt, the giant troll let out a massive, ear-shattering sneeze. The gas immediately blew out of his mouth and nose, dispersing into the air around him. A series of booming coughs followed, but through it all, Ulik kept his feet.

 _So much for that idea,_ Captain America thought.

"Rampage! Trick Shot! You're up!" he shouted.

Ulik was suddenly peppered by a series of small explosions all around him. As before, Trick Shot's explosive arrows did little real damage, but they did serve their purpose. As Ulik spun around in search of their source, he was hit from behind by Rampage, who had charged in and rammed him like the bull he resembled.

Ulik went down again, but as Rampage's charge carried him past, Ulik reached out and grasped his ankle. Rampage went down immediately, held fast by Ulik's iron grip. Hurriedly, the angry troll regained his feet and, still holding Rampage firmly by the ankle, gave a massive heave and threw him against a nearby wall that was already partially collapsed. The wall shattered on impact, and this time Rampage did not stir.

"Rampage is down!" shouted Captain America over comms. "Syren, hit him again!"

Once again, Syren focused her sonic scream on Ulik, who immediately clasped his massive hands over his equally massive ears. This time, however, he was not caught completely off guard.

Locating the source of the attack, Ulik turned and advanced on Syren's position, still covering his ears to guard against the pain. Seeing this, Trick Shot let fly another high-tensile arrow, this one with a remotely guided tip that circled Ulik several times around his legs, wrapping them up in high-tensile monofilament line. Trick Shot tapped a contact point on his bow and the line was pulled taut, pulling his legs together awkwardly and depositing him on the ground yet again.

Roaring with rage, Ulik reached back and grasped the line, still connected to Trick Shot's bow, and ripped it from his hands. Twirling it in the air above him, he swung it in Syren's direction, hitting her solidly on the side of the head. The impact knocked her off her feet, and the sonic attack ceased.

Captain America looked around, gauging his options. Rampage and Syren were down. Trick Shot had been disarmed. Paige and the Quinjet were out of range, though he was loath to request her assistance in any event. Ulik had snapped the line pinning his legs together and was climbing to his feet. He was going to have to find a way to end this himself.

* * *

Paige watched events unfold on one of the Quinjet's side monitors with growing dread. Steve was the only member of the team still in any position to oppose Ulik. She knew he was good, but she didn't like his odds against the Thor-class Ulik. He could literally be ripped in half.

Grimacing, she brought the Quinjet back to a lower altitude and reengaged the weapons systems.

"May I remind you what happened the last time you engaged Ulik?" said the Vision from another side monitor.

"I got this, Viz," she said. "It's not like I have a choice. Ulik'll kill Cap."

"Then allow me," he said.

Suddenly, an entire subsystem that Paige hadn't known was there activated itself. Her weapons systems deactivated, the power being automatically rerouted to the new system. Looking closely at the new readouts, Paige realized there was a mobile holographic emitter equipped to the exterior of this advanced Quinjet, one that incorporated the same solid-holography installed at Stark Tower. Her father must have added it to the aircraft's design at the last minute and forgot to tell her, and like every other system on the plane, the Vision had full access to it.

"Go, Viz," she whispered. _"Go!"_

* * *

The aircraft had returned.

Kerri had barely noticed it hovering some ways off while she and Moody had been focused on the bus and its passengers, but now it swooped low in the direction of the troll. They stopped to watch as it fired off its energy cannons at the ground.

The police officer following them was short and to-the-point.

"Keep moving, guys," he told them.

For a moment, they ignored him, transfixed by the sight of Ulik leaping up onto the aircraft's nose. His weight unbalanced it and it tipped forward, its lower thrusters screaming as they struggled to compensate.

"Let's go, guys!" the officer repeated, firmly.

Kerri looked at Moody, locking eyes with him.

"Are you still sure?" she asked him.

Moody watch uncertainly as the aircraft seemed to right itself, only to pitch forward again almost immediately, even more drastically than before. There was a loud popping sound, followed by Ulik howling in pain and then dropping to the ground.

As the aircraft righted itself again and began rising straight up, the officer grabbed both Kerri and Moody by an arm and pushed them away from what was happening.

"Move!" he barked. Reluctantly, they obeyed.

"They've got it under control," Moody muttered as they began walking.

"Were we watching the same fight?" she asked. "That didn't look under control to me."

He squirmed, visibly.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" he asked, crossly.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But if you really are some weird version of Thor, isn't there something you can do to help? Before he hurts anyone else?"

He looked torn. Still moving, he glanced back at where they knew the battle was taking place, then looked back at her.

"Okay, fine," he told her. "When I say go, try to keep up."

Kerri blinked at him in confusion, but resisted the urge to ask him what he was talking about.

Moody looked around for a moment, seemed to pick a direction, and took a deep breath.

" _Go!"_ he snapped, and took off running. Kerri did her best to keep up, but he was faster than she would have thought, and she had never been much of a runner.

Behind them, she heard the police officer shout, but she didn't hear any footsteps to indicate that he was following. Together, they rounded the corner of a building and continued down an alley, turning right when they came to the end. Moody continued running, forcing her to follow, until he finally stopped at the threshold of another alley. Kerri came to a stop nearby, and they both put their heads down to catch their breath.

"What was that all about?" she panted.

"I didn't want that cop to see," he answered, trying to steady his breathing.

"See what?"

He didn't answer verbally. Instead, he balled up his right hand in a fist and raised it over his head. For a moment, she tensed, thinking he was going to take a swing at her, but instead he went down on one knee and brought his fist crashing down on the ground.

A flash of blinding light filled the alley, and Kerri shrieked in surprise, jumping back a step. When her vision cleared, there was a tall, heavily muscled man standing before her dressed in a blue body suit and a brown leather vest with tall brown boots. He had Moody's blonde hair, but it was long and pulled back, and he had the full beard of a man. In his hand, he held a powerful looking mace.

Kerri stared in shock, struggling to understand that he hadn't been lying or crazy. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

He nodded at her, uncertainly, struggling to form a half-smile. Then he turned, twirled his mace, and threw it upward, holding to the chain at the bottom of the handle and allowing himself to be pulled into the air behind it.

Kerri watched him go, hoping he wouldn't get himself killed.

* * *

As Captain America watched, Ulik was struck from above with the force of a freight train. For just an instant, he caught a glimpse of a green and yellow form falling from the sky at breathtaking speed.

The impact shattered the ground beneath the troll and sent an explosion of rock and dirt in all directions. Captain America immediately dropped to a kneeling position and brought his shield up to protect himself. Amid the new cloud of dirt and dust, he could see a gaping hole in the ground where Ulik had been standing only instants before. Out of the cloud, the Vision's transparent holographic form slowly rose into the air.

"Vision!" exclaimed Captain America. "How in the world?"

"The Quinjet is equipped with a mobile solid-holographic emitter," the Vision explained, impassively. "It allows me to interact with the outside world, and even to engage in limited combat if necessary."

Captain America almost smiled.

"It certainly seems to have been necessary in this case," he said. "Thank you."

From inside the hole in the ground, Ulik let out another scream of rage and frustration. The Vision glanced backward and then turned back to Captain America.

"Excuse me for a moment, Captain," he said. "It would appear our opponent is still in need of attention."

"By all means, Vision," said Captain America, nodding.

Ulik had one arm out of the hole and was hauling himself up. His head had just come up over the edge when the Vision hit him again, using the holo-emitter's ability to give substance to his holographic form. Captain American knew that the Vision's physical body had the ability to control its molecular density, making it intangible or as solid as diamond, or anywhere in between, at will. He wondered if the holo-emitter was able to achieve the same level of solidity.

Ulik took the Vision's punch full in the face, but he dug his massive fingers into the ground to keep himself from being knocked back. With his other arm, he swung at the Vision, but the holographic synthezoid had already reverted back to intangibility, so his fist passed harmlessly through.

Off to the side, Captain America noticed that Paige had brought the Quinjet in low again, no doubt to afford the Vision's holo-emitter the most direct line of sight possible.

It proved to be a mistake.

Ulik may have had the appearance of a brute, but it belied his keen intellect. Trolls were not unfamiliar with advanced technology, and a spark of intuition must have clued him in to what was happening.

The Vision cocked his fist back and delivered another teeth-shattering punch. As he did so, Ulik dug his free hand into the ground and ripped out a chunk of rock. Winding up, he threw it with all his strength at the Vision.

Too late, Captain America realized what was about to happen.

" _Evasive maneuvers!"_ he ordered over comms.

He saw the Quinjet jerk upward, no doubt responding instinctively to his command. Paige must not have understood what was happening, because it wasn't enough.

The chunk of rock flew harmlessly through the Vision's intangible form, and it was a moment before anyone other than Captain America realized that Ulik hadn't really been aiming for the Vision. Instead, the large chunk of rock impacted against the underside of the Quinjet's fuselage. The Vision's holographic form flickered for an instant and then disappeared, his holo-emitter having been hit squarely by the rock and disabled.

The Quinjet rocked to one side as its thrusters compensated for the hit. Captain America was sure that Paige was fighting with the controls to keep it airborne.

"Get out of here, young lady!" he shouted. "Now!"

The Quinjet veered off and away from the scene of the battle, Paige having no doubt realized the wisdom of his command.

* * *

As Ulik climbed out of the crater that had been created by the Vision's fall, the skies suddenly darkened. A layer of angry-looking storm clouds appeared overhead and a heavy wind rolled in.

Ulik looked up in triumph.

"Finally, Odinson!" he declared. "Have you come to face me as a warrior born? Have you come to face death?"

In the skies above, a small speck appeared, rapidly growing to the size and shape of a man. The figure impacted on the ground with a deafening boom, and the shockwave almost knocked Captain America off his feet.

Standing before Ulik was a large, heavily muscled man with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and a full, neatly trimmed blonde beard. He wore a dark blue body suit under an open, brown leather vest and tall brown boots. In his right hand, he held a weapon that resembled Thor's hammer, but featured a triangular head and a loop of chain in place of a leather strap on the bottom of the handle.

Captain America had seen this man before, but he knew it couldn't possibly be the same man. He had seen that man die.

"Eric?" he whispered, uncertainly.

"Who the heck is this guy?" asked Paige over comms.

"That appears to be the Avenger known as Thunderstrike," said the Vision. "However, my records indicate that he was killed in the line of duty over a decade ago."

"Your records are correct, Vision," said Captain America. "I was there. I saw the whole thing."

Thunderstrike was speaking to Ulik now.

"Sorry to disappoint, gruesome," he said, "but if you mean Thor, I'm not him."

Ulik sniffed the air, testing the newcomer's scent.

"Who are you, who smell so similar to Thor but are clearly not him? Are you kin to Thor?"

"Did you just tell me I smell?" asked Thunderstrike in mild disbelief. "Is that a super villain insult or something?"

"Fall back, people," whispered Captain America into comms. "Let's give them some space."

"Bah!" snarled Ulik. "You wear the guise of a thunder god, but you prattle like a mortal! You are not worth my time!"

Ulik lunged at Thunderstrike, but the big, blonde man was ready for him. He neatly side-stepped the aggressive troll and brought his mace down on the back of his opponent's head as he passed. Ulik howled in pain and anger as he went down, face first, into the dirt.

Pushing himself up, Ulik grasped a large chunk of loose concrete and swung it at his enemy as he regained his feet. Thunderstrike saw it coming and met it head-on with his mace, shattering the concrete and impacting solidly with Ulik's hand. The beast howled again at the pain of the impact and regarded his opponent with newfound respect.

"You have power, mortal," he snarled. "But now you face the full fury of Ulik the Untamable!"

Ulik swung now for Thunderstrike's head, seeking a direct hit with the metal pounder on his fist. Thunderstrike gripped his mace in both hands and brought it up to meet the blow, blocking it. Swing after swing, punch after punch, Ulik attacked ferociously while his opponent gave ground, blocking every blow. Captain America began to worry that Ulik might be too much for him.

He needn't have.

Thunderstrike watched Ulik's attack carefully, waiting for his opportunity. As Ulik drew his arm back for another blow, he lowered his mace and ducked. Ulik's fist sailed over his head, leaving him unbalanced and momentarily vulnerable. Thunderstrike took full advantage.

Still gripping his mace in both hands, he swung it upward and struck a powerful blow that caught Ulik under the chin. The force of it lifted Ulik off his feet and sent him flying up and back in a high arc. Unconscious before he even hit the ground, Ulik landed in a heap about a hundred yards away.

Thunderstrike watched him for several moments, but he didn't move again.

Captain America moved in quickly, before Thunderstrike could escape.

"Eric?" he shouted. "Is that really you?"

Thunderstrike had turned away and looked up into the sky, as if to leave the way he came. He hesitated, looking back. For just a moment, the look on his face resembled that of a woodland animal caught in headlights.

Captain America came to a stop just a few steps away and waited, expectantly.

"No," said Thunderstrike, finally. He swallowed. "He was my dad."

Captain America smiled and held out his hand.

"I'm Steve," he said, kindly. "What's your name, son?"

Thunderstrike stared at the offered hand for a long moment before finally accepting it.

"I'm Kevin," he said, simply.

"Thank you, Kevin," said Captain America, glancing toward Ulik. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

* * *

Several hours later, Captain America and Thunderstrike sat together in the director's office at Stark Tower. Steve's office.

The preliminary cleanup had gone quickly. Ulik had been taken into SHIELD custody and transported to a secure facility, emergency crews had begun scouring the wreckage for any potential wounded, and the media had rushed to declare the new Avengers' first mission a complete success. People were already asking questions about the blonde-haired stranger who had delivered the finishing blow to the monster, and SHIELD had made some noises about taking him into custody as an unregistered superhuman, but Captain America had insisted on taking him back to Stark Tower before any determinations were made, and for the moment he had prevailed.

Now the two men sat across from each other at the room's large conference table. They had been there for some time, talking.

"I know you're not entirely comfortable with the registration process," Steve told him, "and I don't blame you. I'm still trying to sort out how I feel about it myself. But I sincerely believe this is a better option for you that running from SHIELD for the rest of your life, and I would also really appreciate your presence on the team. I think your dad would be supportive of this."

Thunderstrike grunted uncertainly, but nodded.

"I have to find out what happened to Crusher," he said. "I can't just abandon him."

"We won't," Steve assured him. "It might take us some time to navigate the maze of bureaucracy and regulations, but we'll find Crusher Creel. You have my word."

"Then I guess I'm in," said Thunderstrike, rising to his feet. Steve stood as well, and the two men shook hands again across the table.

"Welcome to the Avengers."

END


End file.
